Left 4 Dead: No Mercy
by Eristarisis
Summary: Two weeks after Armageddon began, there were four survivors in Fairfield Pennsylvania. They're going to need to need each other to survive in a city overrun by the Infected, even more so when they are Left 4 Dead.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Two Weeks after First Infection

In Fairfield, Pennsylvania, skyscrapers were once proud spires of human achievement. Now they were skeletal fingers beseeching heavens for aid, salvation and hope against the spreading Infection. Amidst the dank fog, in one of the cities numerous snaking alleys, there was movement. This was not the random shuffling of feet accompanied by the orchestrated choir of moaned grunts and shrill groans. The pair of dumpsters were haphazardly scattered on the left side of the alley and from the wall to the right, a long-suffering but now silent air conditioner protruded from the wall. The power to this particular block had failed ten or eleven days ago. Normally, tenant complaints would have sent a repair crew scrambling. But since the Infection began two week ago, things had been anything but normal or routine.

The fog hovered at the mouth of the alley, as if it knew what lay within. Illumination came from one emergency light, and a barrel fire that had been burning for hours, possibly a day. Four shapes became visible within the fogbank, and there was the quiet sound of footsteps. A pair of black scuffed and marred leather shoes kept pace with a pair steel toe capped boots. The former was slow and cautious; the latter was heavy and smacked of overconfidence. Cautious, rapid, but determined and also trailing behind were a pair of Converse sneakers. Their leader was a pair of well, almost lovingly maintained standard issue combat boots.

God, if he was home in the heavens was obviously displeased with the creations he had gifted with free will. The skies rumbled and then flashed. Lighting illuminated the foursome to whom the footwear belonged, the cluster of fallen together bodies, and the flies that buzzed. From the center of the tangle, rose an arm. This group of survivors had stood their ground and foolishly, fought to the last. Presumably, the last human standing had reached out for nonexistent assistance as his fingers were shattered and his thumb shorn off as he was devoured alive. The secondary signs of decomposition had already set in, marking the bodies as several days old… good news for the survivors: The feasting horde had moved on.

A gentle crunch and William Overbeck – simply Bill to his fellow survivors – emerged from the dank with his assault rifle held loose but ready. Death and destruction and general mayhem assailed his sense but he was calm, cautious. Several tours in Vietnam had left him with too many bad memories, and a sixth sense about everything. There was something …off, "Hold up." His voice was gruff, and it echoed off the narrow walls of the alley, perhaps seven feet apart. Behind him, three more survivors emerged from the fog.

He studied the decaying bodies. Some were clearly survivors. Others were the remains of infected or as Zoey - the converse-sneaker wearing eighteen years old - had begun calling them Zombies. The similarities between the two "species" were few, the major one being that they both hungered for human flesh. Where Zombies are slow, and passive-aggressive, the Infected are incredibly fast, aggressive-aggressive and come in a multitude of mutated varieties.

That thing which was "off" Bill saw in the next flash of lightning. There was a green something that only covered the human remains. It was like slime. Taking a knee, he ran his fingers through the muck, taking a very cautious sniff as he smeared it between his fingers, It did not squelch, so much as squish, and even in the poor lighting of the alley, it was the dark green of freshly cut grass, "Never seen anything like this before."

Another flash of lightning, this time accompanied by a crack of thunder as the steel toe capped boots of Hell's Legion Biker Francis stepped forward to contribute his two cents, "Jesus! Don't let that stop you from smearing it all over yourself." There was no way the crew cut; tattooed biker could have seen the frown that crossed Bill's face, but then, he was looking away, right up to the moment Bill wiped his fingers on the man's leather vest.

"They're changing." Bill replied as he pushed a surprised Francis aside and continued walking down the alley.

"Aw! Damn it Bill! It stinks!" Black and bald, Louis gave off a hiccup of laughter at Francis's discomfort as he shot Zoey a look. She smiled back, but the sudden cry wiped the smiles from all their faces as they froze, Louis and Francis tightening their grip on their MP-5 Submachine gun – compliments of a SWAT officer who no longer needed it - and Remington 870 Wingmaster pump action shotgun respectively. Bill had barely taken two steps forward as Zoey pulled up next to him.

The sound came again, with a heart wrenching but chilling clarity, emanating from behind the solitary door that lead in to the alley. The emergency light, threw a dim pool of half-light as the sound crystallized in to the sobs of a woman, in the throes of agony and loss. Zoey swept a lock of stray auburn hair out of her eyes, "Someone's still alive." She was not sure if it was a statement or a question.

Bill crouched, cursing his shrapnel torn knee as Zoey took position beside him. Wordlessly, the other two turned to cover opposing ends of the alley. The slightest of nods spoke and included, "Good luck," "Stay safe," "Keep your eyes peeled," and "Open that door, carefully." The doorknob rattled noisily and the hinges squealed as a mouse caught in the jaws of cat would. The crying echoed from the back of the shadow filled room, louder and more mournful than ever.

"Over there," whispered Bill with a directional nod towards the rear of the shadow shrouded room. With the flick of her thumb, Zoey brought the flashlight taped to her M1911A1 .45 caliber automatic pistol to life. To her right, Bill's gut was acting up. Not acid reflux or indigestion, but the same gut that kept him alive in 'Nam. He swept forward in a crouch casting his own long shadows across the floor. There were shelves along the left and right had walls, effectively cutting the size of the room by a third. The shelves were stacked with boxes of god only knows what as the flashlight swept across a bedraggled clothing that looked as if they had been discarded in a rush, "Hello?"

"Hello?" repeated Zoey. She was two steps behind Bill, but caught the flicker of movement and turned her light towards the sobbing. It looked more and more like a human girl as the weak beam of light revealed her curled on her knees, "its okay. We're going-"

A flash of lightning illuminated the room for a fraction of a second, and the military trained eye noted the grey first. He reached out and snapped her light down before it would have brought it out of the shadows. The grey was the familiar grey of infected flesh, and only one Infected cried. And they were well within its definition of "personal space," "Witch!" They were crouched perhaps three feet from the most dangerous of Infected, "Light's off!" he whispered, as both of them kept their eyes fixed on the crying creature as they slowly began to back towards the open door.

Outside, Francis and Louis kept a watchful eye on opposite ends of the alley. Perhaps the crying of the Witch, but it was more than likely the slime that still stank and stained Francis's vest. The first sound of trouble was a coarse chuckling cough. Louis, whose hearing was marginal sharper due to gossip mongering coworkers, caught the sound. Francis turned just as Louis whispered, "Shit."

It was the sound of feet and shoes pounding against the pavement. Multiple runners, their footfalls getting louder, their cries more audible, they were closing. From the same bank of fog that had so conveniently shielded the foursome earlier, emerged the leaders of the oncoming horde. The current world record for the 100-meter dash is 9.58 seconds. World record sprinters can reach forty-five kilometers an hour over short distances. Nobody had clocked the top speed of an infected but it was a safe bet that the average human would have difficulty outrunning one. "Shit," said Louis.

"Shit!" Repeated Louis as Francis took aim and fired, dismembering the leader. The horde did not mind. There were many more of them closing the distance. "Shit!" shouted Louis as he barreled in to the storage room to gather the others.

Francis stood his ground, grinned and began picking off the approaching infected. Those closer they got, the more of them died, and that suited him just fine. That was why survivors have guns, "Damn vampires!" he growled.

"They're comin!" screamed Louis seconds before artificial light flashed over the scene: Bill and Zoey crouched scant feet from the woman, rocking back and forth, crying over her bloody talon crusted hands. He had barely a second to register the sob that changed to a growl as the light illuminated her. Moments after that, blonde hair turned white whipped around as its angry glowing red eyes bored in to Louis, "What the…"

"Run like hell!" Louis question and Zoey's shout overlapped as the creature reared to its feet. Bill shuffled back and cut loose a short burst, knocking the witch back a step and off balance. Two bullets, one half-step stagger, and half a second of bought time was enough for Bill to throw himself in to the alley and for Louis to slam the door in her face.

Leaning against the doorframe Louis had a moment's respite before she was pounding on the door. At her first blow, it seemed that the door would hold. Her second blow cratered the door. The third carved through the thin metal backed wood and a grey arm and hand that ended in foot long talons flailed about in search of whoever had disturbed her soulful mourning. Louis screamed in retaliation and fired, emptying the magazine through the gaping hole in the door.

Giving the Witch something to cry about Louis did not see his fellow survivors in action, but then, he did not need to. Long days and nights together had built bonds of trust. The protruding arm twitched feebly, "How. Do. You! Like. That!" shouted Louis at the cracked doorway as he swapped in a fresh magazine.

One of the infected dodged its way through the shell shower only to lunge in to the butt of Francis's shotgun with skull shattering force, "Stick together!" roared Francis over the gunfire, even as he pumped another cloud of buckshot in to the horde. He paused to reload as Zoey snapped off rapid, well-aimed shots with her matched pistols. Bill's assault rifle, a relic of sorts had better range and he picked off the infected that threatened their flanks. A half dozen infected went down to a long burst that bisected the alley, "Reloading!" Bill called as he shuffle stepped back and Louis immediately filling the vacated slot in their firing line with controlled bursts.

The creature had been lurking on the roof top, following them for the better part of a city block, always at a distance. Now it had a chance. Bills ejected and slapped home a fresh magazine when the creature dropped on to the second level fire escape behind and took aim. A high, strangled hiss echoed throughout the alley. It was a cry that no human throat or vocal chords had a hope of emulating as the creature's muscles contracted and sent a wet whip darting through the air. The whip was smooth, muscular and pinkish, like human intestines and could reach several dozen meters easily to wrap itself around Bill like a boa constrictor.

His shout was silenced as the Smoker crushed the air from his lungs. He was barely able to gasp, his voice drowned out by the roaring gunfire and howling Infected. Francis sensed more than heard the ambush as he stole a glance and then turned to find Bill dangling some five feet off the ground. He recognized the length of constricting muscle, had been its grasp more than once, and could sympathize with the soldier.

While the virus, disease, or simply, infection had mutated everyone it tainted, some were tainted to a greater degree than others. The common infected that made up the bulk of the hordes, were semi mindless, unintelligent and overly aggressive, reacting to sustained loud noises and flashing lights. The "Smoker" as the survivors had taken to calling this particular type of infected resembled the average infected but it was taller, almost seven feet tall. Growths, boils and pustules decorated its arms and continuously gave off spurts of green smoke or spores and oily blood. Its bloated face is a large tumor and mutations to the facial bones and jaw structure allows a Smoker to launch a tongue like appendage up to thirty meters to snare prey. With its whip of a tongue coiled and tightening, Bill was finding it harder and harder to breathe. He actually found himself grateful that the tattooed biker with a lambda symbol cut in his hair had actually noticed his predicament, "Hang on!" shouted Francis.

Bill was convinced his ribs would crack before Francis would take the shot. Four shells remained in the breech, but Bertha's recoil meant he would only get one good shot. Francis lined up the jerking, twitching head of the Smoker as Bill began to shuffle off the mortal coil. There was a gasping cough, as if the Smoker could not believe that the blast had reduced is face to the consistency of ground beef accompanied by a puff of nauseating smoke as it coughed its last and blew itself off the fire escape.

Two weeks of close quarters fighting had taught them the average horde numbered between thirty and fifty individual infected but when the so called "special infected" started showing up, the horde's numbers would double, for each special infected that appeared. Zoey reloaded for the umpteenth time and risked a glance over her shoulder, partly to check on her companions, partly to make sure that they had a viable line of retreat, "Guys?"

Francis nodded to Zoey who sighed with relief as she turned her attention back to the horde. No one incapacitated. There had been several close encounters and near fatalities when it came to Special Infected like the Smoker. The pair of infected could have been lurking in the shadows all the while and charged. The Remington 870 Wingmaster bellowed once and Francis changed hands and fired one handed, "Merry Christmas" remarked Francis, his way of shrugging off any thanks for lending a helping hand.

The infected do not know fear, do not understand retreat, and do not suffer morale related issues. Headless of their casualties, they gradually gained ground against the two survivors gunning them down. The military would have used the Infected as the perfect suicide shock troops. Two weeks before, Zoey had been a first year university student, and half way through the academic year. Having spent most of the semester holed up in her dorm room watching horror movies or casual gaming, the university's administration had given her a flat ultimatum: Get your grades up or get out. Now, her professors were infected or dead and her "studying" was paying off - cold comfort at best.

Her left hand gun ran dry, meaning that she had one or two rounds left in the right, which suited her fine. She fired the last two bullets and screamed a warning to her comrades, "Fire in the hole!" Hooked on a belt loop, the homemade pipe bomb, completed with a smoke alarm's flashing light and beeper flew from her hand with as much strength as her petite frame could muster.

The first beep from the device successfully attracted the attention of the horde. For all of their potential military advantage, the generic infected lack any real intelligence, wisdom or common sense. By the time it had bounced once and beeped for a second time, the entire horde had turned their focus on the small device. A series of quick bursts ripped apart the few stragglers still too far away. Bouncing once more, it came to halt as it beeped yet again. The survivors took cover behind the dumpsters and a moment after the fourth beep, Zoey proved the practical application of her education, and graduated at the first of her class as a pyrotechnician.

Fire and shrapnel lanced across the alley with dagger like shards of metal eviscerating the Infected. The foursome rose and slaughtered the remaining Infected. The firefight over, they moved through the ocean of corpses that reeked of stale iron and decay. Louis and Francis shared equally grim expressions, while Zoey coughed once and covered her mouth and nose with the sleeve of her jacket. Bill seemed the most unaffected as they caught a few minutes rest, and reloaded. Perhaps only two minutes had passed when they heard it.

They could not place the sound for a moment, having heard few sounds that related to the civilization that they once knew. Louis was the first to recognize it and his eyes darted skyward. The whirling of the chopper's blades erased the night's momentary silence as it cast a searching beam of light, and hope, down in to the alley, and also highlighting, something else for only a moment, "Hey! We are not infected! Hey!" none of them noticed the hunched half-crouched figure on the roof, its growls drowned by the passing of the chopper.

This particular infected had been following the survivors for the better part of a day, and had watched the Smoker attack and meet its demise. Patience was about to be rewarded as Louis broke away from his companions and chased the chopper in to the street. It moved using protruding pipes and the walls to follow its prey, and finally halted, hanging over the edge of a building with one arm as it coiled its legs in anticipation. Louis watched the chopper curl around a skyscraper and vanish, "Damn it!"

The infection had mutated some people differently, probably something to do with the endless miniscule variations in human DNA, and created several strains of "special infected." This particular mutation had lead to an overdevelopment in lower body strength. Duct tape battened downed the sleeves and legs of the dark hooded sweatshirt and equally bloodstained sweatpants. Four stories aboveground, the coiled legs pushed off the wall accompanied by a high-pitched shrill scream, advertizing a successful hunt. The scream would have, should have stunned its prey, but Louis brought his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun up and spun just in time to catch a double armful of hungry pouncing Hunter.

Caught in each other's embrace it slammed Louis back first in to the pavement, and the overdeveloped legs effectively pinned Louis across the chest as it slashed down, each hand essentially a cluster of claw tipped hypodermic syringes ready to infect its prey – if it didn't kill it first. "Get it!" Louis dodged the first and second swipes that raked furrows in the asphalt. In desperation, Louis managed to block several of the blows but could feel his strength waning against the Hunter's sheer determination and savage ferocity, "Get it off! Get it off me!"

His cries were a prayer and the prettiest and youngest of his fellow survivors answered them. With the advantage of youth, she broke in to a sprint and lowered her shoulder. She had never been a football player, or even remotely sporty but professional linebackers would have been proud. Her shoulder punted it aside and the bullets began to fly. The first bullet slammed in to the hunter's shoulder, keeping it off balance as the diminutive teenager's hail of bullets made it jerk and dance to the beat of the barrage. The muzzle flashes lit up the scene for Louis including the bloodied, eyeless sockets and face of his would be assassin.

Drawing his pistol, his hand wavered and his first shot went wide. The second barely grazed an already wounded shoulder. Then a burst of rage and adrenalin steadied his hand. His third shot took the Hunter through the throat, splaying it across the back of a parked sedan, blood leaking from its dozen plus wounds. Perhaps the white sedan took offense to the Hunter's blood upon its already dusty and debris scattered paintwork. Alternatively, the car alarm was just attempting to do its job: Warn off intruders.

However, in a city that essentially belonged to the infected, the loud strident beeping echoed off walls and building, down alleys and even in to the sewers beneath the streets. Individual sounds, no matter how loud such as gunfire, explosions, flashing lights will attract the attention of the infected for only a few seconds. The continuous wail of the siren was the perfect long-term attractant. "Oh…this is going to get bad," muttered Bill.

"No shit old man," thought Francis. The screams and howls of the oncoming horde confirmed what twenty-meter tall shadows, cast across abandoned buildings made clear: There were coming. Instinct took over, as the foursome crept past the still shrieking car and flashing lights as the screams of the infected ricocheted off the buildings and echoed in their ears. The shadows moved from building to building, getting smaller as the infected closed the distances, putting their numbers closer to several hundred.

Standing in the street, they adopted the square formation they had instinctually developed to cover every possible line of attack. They had clear lines of sight down alleys to their three and nine o'clock positions, the road to their six, with the quarantine fences at their twelve. The quarantine fences were chain link steel, bolted in to the ground. Originally, they had been setup and electrified to contain and isolate infected streets, neighborhoods, then districts and then the entire city. Electrified or not, the fences had only slowed the viral spread of the infection.

The fences served to slow the infected because it took them valuable seconds to find hand and footholds in the steel lattice and climb over to continue the attack. Ever the optimist, Louis found himself thinking that things could be worse. There were dozens climbing the fence as he flicked the selector to full automatic. They could handle dozens of infected. They had killed dozens each! Things got worse: The first wave of an incoming tide rounded the far corner of the city block and charged up the street towards them. Louis tried to stay positive: Things could not get any worse.

A brutally loud roar drowned the howling and Francis had a front row seat to the action as a car picked itself off the pavement with a crunch and flew. The airborne vehicle bounced once, then twice as it skidded through the pressed ranks of common infected. It bounced a third time, spinning bumper over bumper before crashing in to and tearing down a fourteen foot stretch of the quarantine fence. Zoey felt the breeze off the flying automobile that came to a rest on its roof, tires spinning as they noted the front and rear doors on the driver's side had been cratered. She shot Louis a glance and he silently agreed: Things could definitely not get any… Louis clamped down on that line of thinking. Having a positive attitude in a crisis was one thing, but at the rate his was bringing in bad news, it was going to get them killed. This was as bad as things could possibly get!

They heard the heavy footfalls, each thundering stride of an infected demigod. Just as the standard infected do not care for their individual lives, neither did the massive sinewy, muscled titan. It punched through the infected running around him, picking up individual infect to use as clubs to batter others out of its way. If the Witch were the most dangerous of the infected when angered, then this was the strongest and angriest of all. The pink-skinned monstrosity barreled towards them and Louis took an involuntary step back, and continued stepping back, "Run or shoot?" Louis's voice was a little frantic as they began to back up. It continued to cut a swathe of butchery in its effort to reach the survivors. Its huge muscled arms matched an equally enormous torso the width of a car engine that was a stark contrast to a small, almost shrunken head. It ran like a gorilla, on its hands more than its legs. "Run or shoot?" Louis asked at a yell over the oncoming chaos.

William Overbeck, recipient of the Purple Heart, Vietnam Service and Campaign Medals, sized up the oncoming Tank, the Infected and had a split second recall of Saigon in April of '75 and Operation Frequent Wind, and the fall of the American embassy in Saigon, "Both!" he yelled.

They four ran and Zoey lead them, picking off Infected in every direction as the rest fired in a desperate and futile attempt to slow the charging Tank, "Will bullets even work on that thing?" Zoey wondered. They had emerged from an alley only minutes before and were now running in to another one with a horde of infected and a Tank chasing after them "Absolutely lovely!" she thought as she pumped another pair of shots in to an infected, "Reloading!" she shouted.

Louis had rattled off an entire clip of bullets and he knew he was hitting the target but it was like poking a stick in to termite mound; all he was doing was pissing off an already enraged monstrosity further. They rounded a corner in the alley and almost stumbled to a halt as the Infected swarmed from the opposite end of the alley. "Get to the roof!" Louis pointed to a ladder and Zoey was the first to jump, catch and run, instead of climb up.

Radiating an aura of mean Francis turned and jumped on to the derelict hulk of a car and brought Bertha to bear, "Go! Go! Go!" he shouted as he set his sights on the corner. The ground trembled and the buildings shook as in a seizure. It was close. Behind him, Louis emptied the last of his magazine in to the horde, and leapt for the ladder. Bill and Zoey both providing covering fire in different directions as Francis waited with eight, twelve gauge double ought buckshot shells. "Come on, come on!" he taunted the Tank. It worked as the beast rounded the corner in an apoplectic rage, right in to the clouds of buckshot that peppered its chest and head. That only made it angrier and it responded by smashing Francis to the ground with a corpse club. Stunned and confused, Francis had barely sat up as the Tank prepared to grind the biker in the alley floor.

Modern soldiers wield the M16A4 assault rifle that can only fire in three round bursts. With a flick of his thumb, Bill's Vietnam era M16A2 demonstrated and proved the value of being able to "rock and roll" as he poured thirty 5.56mm rounds in to the flank of the beast. Point blank range and accuracy did what they could not on the move: Wound it. But also grab its undivided attention. Bill ducked beneath the tree trunk like arm and the backhand stroke that collapsed the wall of a building as Zoey and Louis rained bullets from above.

Pushing Francis up the ladder, Bill dropped the spent magazine and scrambled for his next to last one only to come face to face with a snarling infected, arm drawn back and raised. Behind him, there was a grunt accompanied by the sound of crumbling stone and tearing metal as a chunk of concrete took flight. Louis scrambled up, narrowly evading the impromptu projectile, "Heads up!" Francis dodged back, hanging on to the ladder with the tips of his fingers as the rock came to a rest on the first level of the fire escape. The Infected hissed in Bill's face for a second and lunged forward with its teeth bared. There was a "zip!" and a "squish!" as a bullet entered the top of its head. Bill blinked and looked up in surprise, "Go on! I'll hold them off!" called Zoey from the top level, playing bodyguard and cut down the infected one bullet at a time. Bill scrambled up the ladder, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the tank, now standing tall.

What the Tank lacks in agility and it compensated for with brute strength. With a roar, it took three magnificent strides and leapt. Metal bent and the fire escape broke free of the wall as the one-ton tank gained its footing and went after Bill. Zoey rocked on her feet and continued to fire down as Bill scrambled up to the second level. She hesitated for a split second, as Louis pulled a slightly dazed Francis on to the roof of the building, and then continued shooting. She knew she was hitting it, and hitting it in the face but it just got angrier and more determined to kill someone.

The Tank's destructive progress unbalanced the already fragile structure, jarring Bill hard enough for his rifle to go spinning in to the alley, probably brain-ing an infected in the process. He almost went back for it, but took Louis's outstretched hand as the entire structure swayed unsteadily, as the Tank tore its way on to the second level of the fire escape. Zoey rocked and swayed with mountain goat footing as she emptied another two magazines in to the Tank's sunken head and face. It grabbed the ladder and pulled, tearing it free, along with most of the supports holding up the structure. She slammed hip first in to the railing as the entire structure tilted dangerously. Pain flared in her mind and one gun went spinning in to the darkness of the alley below. The Tank reached up with a single massive hand, inches from grabbing Zoey when the metal structure gave a shriek. So much weight, so high up exceeded all real and imaginary limits and tolerances of the fire escape as the few remaining load bearing beams snapped like twigs. The entire structure, torn completely free of the wall seemed to stand still for a moment, and then began to fall.

Hair flying wild around her face she ran and jumped, barely able to push off the trailing edge of the falling structure to gaining precious inches in height, arm outstretched overhead as she shrieked the first name to come to mind, "Francis!" Her hand barely cleared the edge of the roof and she felt herself reach the absolute apex of her jump. Terrified, she stared upwards for a fraction of a second, wondering where the others were, and had all but given up hope when she felt flesh beneath her outstretched hand, and fingers that coiled firmly around her wrist. Instinctively, she did the same, and found herself staring in to Francis's eyes that spoke for her, "Thanks… I knew you wouldn't leave me." It was an awkward moment for Francis as he read her eyes.

Life, it seemed, was not without a certain sense of irony. She stared down, beneath her feet as the fire escape collapsed in on itself, the roar of anger, and perhaps protest not lost over the sound of shattering metal. The one ton Tank struck the ground like a bomb, sending up clouds of dust and broken stone as the buildings trembled at the impact. Seconds later, the fire escape had its revenge on the tank and the remnants of the horde as it crushed them in a cocoon of broken metal.

Francis dug deep and with an explosive burst, pulled Zoey up, high enough for Louis to grab her and collectively pull her on to the roof. Exhausted, they fell in to a heap for a moment and then awkwardly spread themselves out. Francis had half a decade on Louis, who had at least a decade on Zoey. Francis collapsed backwards, coming to lean against the cool brownstone that soothed his aching muscles. Zoey sprawled on to the roof as Louis slumped to his knees.

"We made it!" An elated Louis threw out between gasps as he wiped the sweat away from his smiling face. His tie had been crooked long before their latest encounter, and his white shirt was grey, and black and drenched in sweat and tainted blood. But he didn't really care at that moment, "I can't believe we made it!"

With his back to them all, sitting on the steps that would have lead to the now destroyed fire escape, Bill pulled the sweat soaked cigarette from behind his ear. A series of deep tears through the heavy fabric of his jungle fatigues marked a close encounter with either a Witch or a Hunter. Nobody had asked him about it. There was the trademark flick of a lighter, a brief pool of yellow orange light as he lit up, "Son, we just made it across the street." Bill took a drag, "Let's not throw a party until we are out of the city." He exhaled, pushing another cigarette behind his ear.

They strolled to the edge of the building and looked down, four stories in to the streets. Where streetlights still functioned and the burning wrecks of vehicles were still smoking the light revealed hundreds of infected. They stood still and swayed, wandered and walked the streets, or hammered away at each other. It was clear that they were waiting for the next thing to trigger a killing frenzy. Bill, Francis, Louis and Zoey: Four survivors, four guns, knee deep in the twice dead, standing against the walking dead had not come this far through hell, to die.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Suite Life of Apocalypse

The sound of gunfire was carried on the wind from a distant quarter of Fairfield. It was a sign of hope, for the foursome resting upon the roof of the building that there were others. Above all else, it was a testimonial of the indomitability of human courage and determination. Humanity would not go quietly, and would fight, butcher, kill and resist until the last man – or woman – falls.

Their current sanctuary did not have four walls, a roof and a solid steel door like many that they had occupied. There was only one door up to the roof, so they took turns to guard it, while the rest caught some sleep. The concrete roof was no substitute for a bed and mattress or even a damp sleeping bag but they were too tired to care since a second tarpaulin sheets, sand bags and chunks of concrete had kept a portion of the roof dry.

The rain had been falling for about an hour, but they had rested for almost two, judging by Bill's watch and they were in decent shape after their various close encounters with a Smoker, a Hunter, a Tank and several hundred infected. Bill glanced at the roof access door that lead down in to the building, "It might as well lead down in to the depths of hell," he thought. Rejoining his three comrades, all of whom were in various stages of packing, repacking and reloading, he began to do the same. Nobody said anything, but nobody had too. Harsh experience had taught them to survive carrying only the absolute essentials: Ammunition, medical supplies, water, more ammo and food. Regardless, all of them carried a few personal effects amongst all the necessities.

Zoey's mind idly wandered, trying to think of anything other than the dozens of people that she had killed, all of whom could have been friends or people she knew in her former life, before the Infection hit. When things had gone to hell, she'd been smarter than most, and discarded her cell phone, iPod and Blackberry while she was still holed up in the campus general purpose store, only a few days before she met the first of her companion.

Francis had broken through her crude barricades looking for food. He had come within a microsecond of blasting her with Bertha while she had come within millimeters of braining him with a frying pan. Louis and Bill had joined the pair at a crossroads near the only bar a stone's throw from Mercy City College when Francis and Zoey had agreed a drink would be nice. The days had blended and they had gone from ragtag group of random persons to ragtag group of friends. No matter that some – Bill and Francis - fought like cats and dogs, and that their friendships were idiosyncratic and dysfunctional – Zoey and Francis, Francis and Louis, Bill and Zoey - The bottom line was that everyone takes care of everyone.

"Zoey," At the sound of her name, she stood up shakily and walked over to the table where Francis was had been cleaning and reloading Bertha with a steady, almost loving hand. He was pointing to something in the distance, something in the air coming fast towards them, making a hell of a lot of noise. Francis's tone got the attention of the others who turned to watch. She recognized the white blue and red paint splashed paintwork of the chopper: Channel 5 News. Louis shivered involuntarily as the chopper closed in towards them and subconsciously, brought his gun up and began scanning the surrounding roof tops, half expected another hooded sweatshirt wearing, duct taped shrieking thing to come flying directly at him.

Bill could only note the skill and precision of the pilot, weaving between buildings where there was little margin for error. The flying had a military flair to it, and Bill almost wished it were one of the choppers that had ferried him and the rest of his air cavalry unit in and out of the jungles of Vietnam. That brought up a sobering thought of his few remaining friends from the service, and overall, how many of them were still alive.

The chopper weaved its way through the buildings, its mounted spotlight doing little more than agitating the gathered infected, even as it swept past their roof and them. The pilot's voice did impart one piece of good news, "To anyone who can hear this! Proceed to Mercy Hospital for evacuation!" They have a destination, leaving only the "how" to be worked out. Closest to the ledge, Louis spotted the wave of motion on the street below and blanched. There were hundreds, almost a thousand chasing the chopper.

The horde grumbled, hissed and shouted its displeasure as it charged down the street oblivious to the rooftop gathering. The determined pursuit drafted a number of free standing Infected in to their ranks and the wave would steadily grow in to a tsunami. Woe be-tide wherever that chopper finally landed. The growth of the horde was a twisted awe-inspiring sight. More than one finger twitched at the sound of breaking glass, especially since it came from directly below. It only served to highlight just how precarious their refuge really was – a fact that there were aware of but had not properly registered due to a lack of sleep, demonstrating the truth of the new adage that "sleeping was dangerous, but not sleeping is even more dangerous."

"Hey guys, check this out," said Zoey. Together, weapons ready, they watched as windows along both sides of the street shattered as dozens of infected ploughed through them on the first, second, third and even fourth floors, "Intelligent, the infected are not. Mindless and determined, they are." She remarked. Louis cracked a smile. They were all thinking the same thing: The chopper and Mercy Hospital was the best way out. It sure as hell beat trying to walk or somehow ride the infected tsunami.

Bill was the first packed. Originally, he had possessed two of the .45 caliber pistols but had given one to Zoey that had been lost during their affair with the Tank, leaving him with a military .45 Caliber and her with the same 9mm Beretta Francis had given her sometime ago. Louis and Francis were arguably the best armed with a submachine gun and shotgun but the question of ammunition had reared its ugly head: Five magazines and roughly a hundred shells.

As usual, Francis was packed but taking the time to clean and polish his beloved Bertha, "Piece of shit vampires, got their damn blood all up in you. Gonna take forever to clean that before you get back to normal," he muttered. Zoey smirked, and Louis sighed. Francis treated the entire apocalypse nightmare as if it was the world greatest bar fight and he was smack dab on center stage, but then again, Francis didn't care what they were fighting or perhaps why, just so long as they were fighting.

Zoey tapped him on the shoulder, gently to avoid an explosive reaction, "Bertha's going to be just fine." Everyone knew better than to mock the shotgun, "Hell, I'd make a bet with Louis that you could still nail one hundred of these infected with her in that condition."

Francis adopted an exaggerated air of philosophical thoughtfulness, "Already made more than one brain salad." He broke in to one of his genuine and incredibly rare smiles. Zoey felt her heart do a little flutter and flip as she realized that she could actually bring out the gentler, nicer side of Francis that was hidden beneath the badass persona.

"Come on you two. We don't have all day." Bill's voice cut through the moment and Zoey hastily hoisted her stuffed backpack and cinched down the straps, and additional ties around the waist and across shoulders that kept the bag from swaying. Zoey hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a few more magazines off the table and jammed them in to already stuffed pockets. There is no such thing as too much ammunition, "We can take the subway tunnels to the hospital. There should be a Red Line station not far from here."

"Yeah, down the street and around the block," confirmed Louis as Zoey joined the three men in front of the door that lead in to the building. Francis, with his normal I-can-kick-you-scrawny-ass look on his face primed Bertha, as Louis adjusted his pant legs, leaving him looking like LL-Cool J, with one pant leg rolled higher than the other. Bill already had a cigarette stuffed behind his right ear and a lit one in his mouth as Zoey tied her hair back in its customary ponytail. A quick nod from Bill and she pushed the door open carefully, and Bill's boot pinned it open, letting the stench of death and putrefaction reach them. It was immediately apparent that whatever lived in the building was no longer human.

The ten stairs down lead them in to the kitchen and bare fridge left open, spilling a weak puddle of light that was enough to highlight the lone infected leaning against the kitchen counter. First in to the kitchen, Francis studied the creature and the wounds to her neck and back. The infection had made them faster, inhumanly strong, and mindless, but it had also made them, structurally weaker. Bullets and even buckshot penetrates multiple infected at once, crippling or eliminating them. Guns and the fragility of the Common Infected gave the survivors a not so sporting chance.

His booted foot struck it in the back and drove it face-first in to the counter. His follow up blows crush vertebrae causing it to jerk upright once and then slump to its knees, dead, "Spinal tap!" muttered Francis as he stepped in to the dining room, where the bottles of an empty six pack were scattered, "…could have left me a beer…" He grumbled

Broken glass crunched underfoot as they swept the apartment, killing the few stragglers remaining before Bill locked the front door that lead down to the next level of the building. Outside, the rain continued to fall, almost as if God was trying to wash away the chaos and carnage of Fairfield's inhabitants. "Spread out and search," ordered Bill. Given the state of the fridge, it was unlikely that they would find anything but things were getting harder. Less than a week ago, they had moved without having to carry food, but those stockpiles had dwindled and all of them now carry packs. There was not telling how long before all they could eat would be limited by what they can carry.

Rifling through the cupboards, Louis's eyes caught sight of the Nespresso coffee maker and he had a sudden craving for a cup of delicious coffee, blacker than the darkest of nights that was also as hot as hells own fire. He figured if he were craving, Bill would definitely enjoy one. Rummaging through the cupboards, Zoey scrounged up matching cans of something minus their labels. Bill and Francis found nothing in the bathroom's medicine cabinet. An impressive mixed stash of cleaning supplies and Zoey's fiery brand of education was about to prove useful. "Hey guys, give me a hand with this stuff!"

Fire has been a weapon since man began to kill man at the dawn of time, and today, complicated or simple, the firebomb, or Molotov cocktail has proven to be a devastatingly effective weapon. Any blend of highly flammable liquids such as gasoline, kerosene, certain alcohols, lighter fluid with a mix of tar, grease, even dissolved candle wax or polystyrene can be poured in to a glass bottled, corked with a rag, can be lit and thrown with devastating effect. Zoey's film script knowledge gained practical support by Francis's blend of practical "I'm a bad man" known how. The only problem would be lighting them in a hurry.

Bill provided the solution to their dilemma from the depths of a side pocket on his pack, "Homemade waterproof matches," he explained as he pulled a roll of tape and set to work. Having lived on the edge for so long none bothered whispering. The Infected hear whispers as well as a shout. Several minutes later, they had a sufficient number of matchbox igniters to go with their six-pack of Molotov cocktails. Unnoticed, Louis slid over to the sink, and was left disappointed when nothing came out of the faucet. He sighed quietly and slid several strips of capsules in to an unused pouch on a salvaged webbing belt. Either he would find a working machine, or more likely, something he could jury-rig to brew some coffee.

There was a thump, and a snarl.

Then dozens of angry fists, pounding upon, something close by. "Oh shit," muttered Bill as all four of them brought their weapons to bear, in different directions, just as they had always done. There was a crack and then a storm of plaster and wood, as the dining room wall collapsed; "Two O'clock!" snapped Bill already gunning down the first pair that stumbled through the hole. The others turned, each a cog in a well oiled machine and fired.

Zoey squeaked at the first shot, still unaccustomed to the ringing in her ears despite a week of close quarter battle. The first shots always freaked her out, simply because it broke the silence. "Have a drink!" shouted Louis, as he grabbed one of the fresh cocktails off the counter, "You bastards!" the igniter was separated in two parts: the bundle of matches taped together and to the neck of the bottle. The paper cap was the striking surface from a book of matches folded in and wrapped around the matches. Pulling the paper "cap" caused the striking surface to rub against the sulfur match heads and ignite the matches that in turn lit the rag protruding from the neck of the corked bottle, "Grenade!"

Hundreds of years of warfare have proven that you can douse a man in flames and kill him. Nevertheless, most would be smart enough to stop, drop and roll in an effort to extinguish the blaze. The infected stumbled and staggered as their decayed flesh caught fire and immolated them, turning them in to stumbling candles that twitched, jerked, fell and charred with an astounding and unexpected rapidity.

"Eleven o'clock!" cried Zoey. They turned and hosed down the small gathering that had smashed down the front door. The infected were in the low numbers, which was a "good news, bad news" deal. The good news was that it made life easier for the moment. The bad news was that there would be lots of them gathered somewhere else. Then again, gun battles tend to attract infected and the fire now licking hungrily at the walls would shortly have most of this apartment, and then the rest of the building blazing, "Time to go!"

They descended following the stairs in to another apartment where they search was even less than cursory due to the real risk of having the roof collapse on top of them. Ignoring a television set that had been grinding out static for days they found their path blocked by a generous mountain of furniture and fixtures. "We need to find another way down."

"What? We could just move this shit," replied Francis

"Make a ton of noise," commented Zoey

"Yeah, and not to mention the building is on fire" added Louis

"Well I didn't set the building on fire, Louie!" barked Francis.

"Enough!" snapped Bill, "We've got enough problems without you idiots adding to 'em! Let's just find another way down." Tensions had always existed between the three men in the group. Between Francis and Bill, it was a matter of leadership, authority, respect and possibly power. Between Bill and Louis, it was more about Louis being Mr. Positive-Happy-Sun-Shiny-Day. Between Francis and everyone, was the simple fact that he hated, well, everything and everyone. He paused as he looked out the window. That tank had brought down the fire escape earlier, ruling that out. Francis paused as the brunette's reflection flashed in the window. Well, maybe he did not hate everyone, just nearly everyone.

"Hey guys! I found a way!" Louis gestured towards the gaping hole in the wall, "That leads to the neighboring apartment, and these buildings normally have separate stairwells leading down."

Zoey opened her mouth only to have Francis clamp his hand over her mouth, "Listen!" Louis might have made a sound that was a cross between a squeak of a trapped mouse and the yelp of kicked cat as he spun round, looking for the source of the sound, "I hear a Hunter. Come on out, wussy!" growled Francis as he swept the room.

The rule of thumb with Hunters: When you hear them, they are about to pounce and this one had picked his target. The four drew closer together as they advanced in to the neighboring apartment, culling the few infected standing around as they entered the kitchen, and found the hole in the kitchen floor, "I don't even want to know how this happened." remarked Louis, "But at least we can get down through here."

The Hunter had been stalking them, just waiting for this opportunity and with a shrieking cry, it lunged from a small pantry, across the gaping hole in the kitchen floor, smashing Francis back in to the next room. Being in the path of a pouncing Hunter is like standing in the way of a bulldozer. "Get your punk ass off me!" roared Francis right in to the Hunter's snarl as he grabbed one clawed hand in mid swing and punched out with his free hand. The blow knocked a tooth from its mouth and Francis wound back for another blow when scalpel like talons stabbed and ripped the flesh on his shoulders.

He had about three seconds before it killed him when he heard the trademark "ka-chink!" The sound actually gave the Hunter a moment's pause, as it looked up, its sightless eyes peering down Bertha's barrel. Its corrupt brain had barely a moment to register what it was seeing before blood and brain matter splashed against the ceiling in a chaotic pattern. Zoey lowered the still smoking weapon as the others helped him sit up, "Whoah… is that, my blood?"

"Looks like your big mouth still works," commented Bill, as he examined the mix of wounds, "You're gonna be fine, as soon as we get those patched up." True enough until they heard the cough and crack of a whip. Suddenly, Zoey jerked back and vanished round the corner like yo-yo on the backstroke as the Smoker reeled her in.

"Go! Go!" barked Francis as he drew his 9mm Beretta, despite the blood dripping down his arms, "I can look after myself for a few minutes!" Not that he needed to say anything more as the other two had gone to her aid. Scanning his surroundings, the seconds ticked in to minutes and he found himself nervously humming, "One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer...slay a vampire, chug one down, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall..."

There was a shrill scream and then silence. Francis crawled the short distance and propped himself up against the wall, continuing to hum his battle anthem to himself. His gun wavered and he shook his head to clear the dancing stars and cobwebs before his eyes. He shook his head and blinked in surprise as he saw his comrades gathered around him, and Zoey examining his bloodied shoulders, ""All right, tiger, up and at em'."

"Is it just me, or did that seem a lot like team work?" asked Louis.

Bill shook his head, considering all knew about the different strains of the infected. It was obvious to him that they were changing, evolving almost. The hordes were still mindless, direct and hyper-aggressive. Oftentimes, the hordes of common infected were nothing more than a diversion for a Smoker's pull or a meat shield for a Hunter's pounce. This was the first time they had encountered the "Special Infected" working together.

Bill summed, "They're changing," he waved his hand, gesturing the way they had come, "The alley and that green slime," he pointed to Francis, "that was something none of us have seen," then to Zoey, "The Witches cries are getting more and more human," and finally to Louis, "the Hunter, waited for you to wander off before it attacked. These two were either working together, or the Smoker took advantage of the distraction. You mean to tell me that none of those are signs that they're changing?"

They chewed over that for a few minutes, and gave Francis a few minutes more to rest without drawing attention to that fact. Finally, Bill took charge, "Come on, We gotta move." The helicopter's passage and their recent engagements had eliminated most of the immediate opposition as they leapt down to the ground floor through the gaping hole. There were few infected around, as Zoey leapt, overbalanced and her attempts to catch herself only saw her land on her behind with a thud to the tune of a quiet snigger from Louis, and a guffaw from Francis.

She glared daggers, pushing herself to her feet; "Shut up you guys!" she hissed and pushed past them, kicking open the door to the next room. The light was blinding and she blinked rapidly to help her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Whoever had been driving, had lost control of the H1 Hummer and sent it plowing through the side of the building. The snapped off key in the ignition explained why the vehicle's lights were still on, and hopefully that there were other survivors out there.

Conscious of the light, they shielded their eyes and moved past only to find themselves staring in to the exact opposite: a hallway that was darker than the rainy night. Gun mounted lights cut through the darkness only to reveal free standing infected literally inches away. One made a sound like a grunt crossed with a hiccup as it staggered forward a step, only to be pistol-whipped by Zoey. She took aim only to have Francis, Louis and Bill obliterate her target, "Hey! That was my kill!" she protested.

Bill grunted and brushed past, Francis looked puzzled, but Louis cracked the hint of a smile, "Please, even for an infected, that thing was half way to being really dead," he said, laying a hand on Zoey's shoulder. She gave Louis a strange look, shrugged him off and brushed past him and Francis to join Bill in the doorway that lead in to… another alley.

"What the fuck was that about?" asked Louis.

Francis could only shrug.

"I am getting sick of all these alleys," commented Bill.

"I hate alleys," remarked Francis as he slotted a few more shells in to the breech. One of the small cylinders slipped from his grasp and he slid to one knee, as if he was reaching for the shell, but he stayed down for more than a moment, "Hey Francis, you ok?"

"I'm feelin' pretty shitty... and a little woozy..." he shook his head and seemed to regret it almost immediately, but his macho-toughness wouldn't let him admit it, "Ugh... Well, the woozy's kinda fun." Zoey almost sighed as she pulled him up. It was still raining as the four of them took a moment to study their surroundings. Francis contemplated putting another shell of buckshot in the hulk of the dead Tank, barely visible under perhaps a ton of mangled fire escape but decided against it as he stepped out in to the rain, "I hate rain."

Had it not been for the Tank, they would have cut through this alley hours ago, and wouldn't have had to make a stop atop the apartment cum hotel building. Thought Bill, and saved them a lot of time. Add that to Francis's injuries and having lost a fair amount of blood. He shook his head; they were rowing their boat up shit creek, "So long as we don't lose our paddles" He thought darkly.

Bill said nothing about Francis but he had seen more than his fair share of wounds during his tours to know that the wounds were not fatal in themselves but it was the blood loss that was going to make him a liability, "Louis, how far to that safe room?"

Louis hesitated, "If the gossip's right, it should be around the block and down the street," he replied. There was a coughing and a growl from the roof tops above, "That does not sound, good." He was glad for the change of subject. He had not been alone the first time he came this way, when he and his wife had been trying to outrun, well everything. Louis felt his insides turn to ice. It took him several long moments to quash down the feelings that a Witch seemed to give voice to. What he had scrawled on to the wall of the closest safe room was nothing that he thought he'd see again, or that anyone he would even remotely knew would see.

He'd scratched his confession in to the wall of a subway safe room when his former group had crossed the city trying to get to a then still working Evacuation Point. His wife had been bitten along the way, several other members of the group too. There had been ten of them, and when they decided to batten down the hatches and wait it out. He'd left the six men and women to their fate. He'd bumped in to Bill hours later.

Barring the wrecks of two burned out cars the alley was clear of infected, "I'll take point. Louis, Zoey, the rooftops, there might be something up there. Francis, stay in the middle. Eyes and ears people, now let's double time it to the safe room." The alley was ankle deep in equally lifeless corpses, most of which bore the hallmarks of infection and fresh glass wounds from window diving. Their advance was rapid but cautious as they place a bullet in every intact skull they came across. They halted when they found the remains of a police officer, who had enacted his last stand in the alley, taking his own life rather than let the infection take him. Zoey put an additional bullet through the man's forehead and scooped up the officer's Glock 22 and the few clips of matching .40 S&W ammunition, careful to keep the different magazines separate.

Louis half expected a Tank to be waiting for them, but they had not heard any of the telltales growling and snuffling they had come to associate with that particular beast. The coughing Smoker was still above and trailing them on a street that was flooded with at least fifty milling Infected. Crouched in the shadows the foursome was unnoticed. The infected were either staggering about in mindless circles or appeared to be resting, leaning against walls or just sitting around. A quarantine fence blocked all but one path, and that path was a street full of infected, waiting for the slightest sound to set them on a killing frenzy, "Any ideas?"

Bill would have skirted the infected and avoided the conflict. Francis unfortunately, had other ideas as he stepped beneath the glow of a flickering streetlight, "Come on you mindless mother fuckers!" If the shout failed to attract attention, the roar of the shotgun laid down the challenge, and the street came alive with the sound of the Infected.

"Shit!" Louis as he ran forward and dropped to one knee to Francis's left as Bill and Zoey took up their regular positions and began to fire. Broken glass and the corpses of recently suicide or slain infected littered the streets, stumbling the charging infected as they slipped and fell over each other in their determination to reach the still human survivors. "God damn it! Francis!" shouted Bill, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Keep your beard on old man!" retorted reloading Francis, as he spied the cylinder hooked to Zoey's jeans. It seemed that she always had at least one homemade explosive or another around her waist, "Fire in the hole!"

The infected, turned in mid stride, more than one stumbling as they turned and chased down the beeping flashing cylinder as the humans slipped quietly back in to the alley. Francis blinked when he saw the look Zoey gave him, but it was gone as she brushed a loose lock of hair aside. He gave her half a smile and shot a stray zombie attempting to scale the fence. "Let's go."

"Gossip" meant that somebody had scrawled something on to the wall of a safe house or temporary shelter of some kind. Francis lead, and Zoey covered their backs as they paused to make a decision, "Guys, you wanna go through the building or stick to the street?"

"I hate buildings," said Francis, "But then again, I hate streets too."

"Francis is there anything you don't hate?" asked an exasperated Louis.

"Yeah and I'll tell you one thing I don't hate," he caught himself before Zoey noticed his look, but not before Bill saw it. He hastily tapped his vest, "I don't hate vests." It left Zoey wondering, perhaps with a hint of hope, just what other things he did hate.

Bill grunted, "The streets ought to be clear after your performance back there, Francis. A couple of years in the service would have slimmed ya down and shut you up." A loud gurgling from something, close by, cut off Francis's retort. It sounded like a very hungry stomach. There was a scrape of flesh on wood, and then a crack as fragments of door spilled in to the street. The appendage that came through the hole could have easily been mistaken for a tentacle instead of an arm, given its obscene girth. Louis was first to respond, sending a hail of bullets through the door, as seconds later, his comrades opened up. There was a moment's wonder at what that arm belonged to.

There was no fire, or shrapnel, but something akin to an over filled water balloon exploding. The door itself blew outwards because of a blast from within the building. Instinct had the four survivors ducking back as a wave of entrails and green tinged watery blood rolled out of the door, "Uh… What the hell was that?" asked Louis.

Francis shrugged, Zoey still had her mouth hanging open, and Bill answered the question, "That was something new."

"Yeah well," stated Francis, "I still hate streets, but I think it's better to take that than go through the building." There was no argument with Francis on that as they advanced cautiously, moving from one well lit area to another, with someone always covering their rear. Those infected that tended to stagger around alone, were masters of the sneak attack. Barely ten feet down the street, they came across an abandoned police cruiser, with its lights still flashing with a police officer dead upon the hood of the vehicle. It looked as if a horde had dragged the woman through the windscreen and used the hood of the cruiser as a dinner platter, while they ate her alive.

There was so much death, destruction, violence and mayhem that it took something truly repugnant to affect them anymore. Though none of them would admit it, this definitely qualified. Bill was remarkably the most sanguine about it. "The military does that to you," thought Francis as he turned away, and sucked in a breath of semi-untainted air to settle his stomach. He had seen a few things, but nothing quite like that, ever. Louis had gone slightly green, the shade visible on his face and in his eyes. Zoey, failed to keep their last meal down, spinning away and collapsing on to her knees as she threw up.

"Christ. At least the Commies would kill ya quick," muttered Bill as he took a breath, held it and began to search. He found the officer's Glock 22 just under the front tire and a Remington 870 Police Variant shotgun in the front seat with a sling, barrel heat shield, and a vertical pistol grip fore-end. Without hesitation, he holstered his own Colt, "Subway ahead…close quarters, can't get much worse than VC tunnels…" he hoped.

The street stayed mercifully quiet, and was serene in comparison to the past half an hour to forty minutes. They passed a derelict 18 wheeler and took the time to rifle the cab and check the massive twenty foot container. The hundreds of plasma screen televisions were absolutely useless. But Francis found a small still intact and unopened medical kit, along with a six pack of room temperature beers. He stole a glance down the road, and despite the rain, and smoke could make out the entrance to the subway at the end of the block. He shrugged and shoved the six-pack in to his already bulging pack, "Francis, find anything?"

"Uh… small medkit… not sure what's in it. He replied as he tightened the straps on his pack, "Anything in the back?"

"Nope," there was a short burst of gunfire; "Six o'clock!" there was the rattle of a short burst, "Couple of strays!" Francis was back on the street, covering the manager as he put down the last Infected.

"We need to get out of this rain," said Bill. By now, their extended sojourn had seen the all get wet, and they were almost soaked through. The rain itself wasn't too bad, nor was the wind, but long term exposure to the elements would sicken them all, making them that much easier to kill, "Station's just up the street?"

Louis confirmed it with a nod, "This should be the easiest part of the day."

"Shaddup Louis! You're going to jinx us!" The entrance to the subway was marked by a burning barrel fire that cast a red glow over everything the light touched. The warning chirp had them all jumping, weapons raised and ready to fire at the car. Nobody fired. And they grinned at each other, sheepishly and gave the vehicle a wide berth as they passed beneath the station's sign "Red Line: North-South."

"Best damn thing I've seen since that fire escape fell down," Bill glanced at his watch, "Three hours ago." Standing at the top of the stairs, he flicked on the shotgun's mounted light and frowned. The way was blocked by what looked like an accident involving insanity, a van and a powder blue Prius. However, the same accident had also knocked out a portion of the retaining wall. "If there's a safe room, then it's inside the station."

With the exception of Francis, none of them really enjoyed the fighting and the killing. But even Francis was not a fan of close quarter's gun battles where you were half deaf from your own shooting. The Infected numbers played to their advantage in any kind of confined space where there was rarely a place to fall back to meaning there were two choices: Be killed or kill 'em al - before Hunters and Smokers start pouncing and dragging. "No Tank…" thought Louis, "Stay positive guys," he said, "I got a good feeling about this."

Trailing the foursome, Francis turned at the sound of something landing heavily behind them. Bertha belched fire and shrapnel, "Hunter!" he roared. Incredibly, the creature ducked beneath the blast and before Francis could pump out another shell, it had leapt across the street and scrambled out of sight as bullets continued to chase it, "Sweatshirt wearing wuss," growled Francis. Staying close together, they descended the stairs and they followed the path suggested by the gaping hole in the wall.

The next underground space, was some kind of storeroom before it was abandoned, but Louis breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the iconic symbol sprayed in the orangey yellow paint that marked the presence of a haven, "Safe house ahead!" they picked up the pace just in time for the now almost classic sonic assault of a pouncing Hunter.

The Hunter had been trailing them, since it first saw these four on the roof of the building earlier. A brother Hunter, and one of their smoking comrades had been determined to take the food right there on the roof. He has disagreed and they had attacked without him, inside the buildings. He had watched their assault, and watched them fail and pay for it with their lives.

He had selected the youngest, and only female in the group, as she always seemed to be the one with the lightest of weapons. He had only seconds, before the oldest male turned and tried to kill him, and the other two, especially the one who was usually the first to shoot rejoined their comrades.

He lashed out, claws glinting evilly in the flickering light as he cut, slashed and hacked, tearing open more and more flesh. Blood splashed his rain soaked sweatshirt as he lost himself for a moment in the sheer frenzy until something smashed in to the back of his skull, knocking him off his prey and bringing him back to his senses. Armed with the knowledge that the prey would reunite he crouched and leapt, screaming in frustration as he did so. The sleeve on his sweatshirt was ripped away as he leapt again, retreating along his original line of attack up the stairs in to the drizzling night.

"Get your asses in here!" shouted Francis from the relative safety of the safe room doorway. There was little that they could do to hurry their progress as Louis and Bill struggled to carry the wounded teenager to safety. When he spotted the movement, he had no choice but to push and then leap over his comrades and brought Big Bertha down butt stock first, caving in the skull of the last Infected. Slamming the door shut, he rammed the bolts home and reloaded, dropping two shells in the process.

"How is she?" croaked Francis

"She's gonna make it. Just a couple of nasty gashes," replied Bill without looking over as he tore the bandage and knotted it.

Francis nodded, winced and looked down at himself and whispered, "Ma…" Blood leaked from beneath his vest and dripped down one arm. The white fluorescent lights made his blood seem darker than normal. His vest and straps of his pack were sodden too. There was a clatter as Bertha struck the floor and bounced once.

"Francis?"

The sound of his name made him look up, and smile serenely at his comrade. That was the moment they knew something was definitely wrong. It was a natural, easy smile, one the likes of which none of them had ever seen before.

He keeled over like a freshly chopped tree.


	3. Chapter 3

Interlude

Why the Witches Cry.

Zoey flopped down against the wall, exhausted. She took a deep breath, ignoring the pain that flared from the hunter's claws. Her hair was matted to her face, sticky with sweat and blood. Most of it was not hers. Some of it probably belonged to Francis, but judging from the throbbing, there was at least a bruise just above her right eyebrow.

Bill was off in the corner, lighting up his umpteenth cigarette. Louis was rubbing his temples as he sat stiffly in a chair. And Francis was as comfortable s they could make him. He'd taken just as bad a beating as she had, but he'd lost a lot more blood. Despite the beating from the Infected, they had made it this far and spent the better part of a day, just resting. Francis was back on his feet, and not proud that he'd gone down like an oversized sack of potatoes. He was sitting by the door, Bertha in hand, and it was clear he was aching to shoot something in retribution. Predictably, alcohol – even if it was just beer – didn't put the bear in Francis in a better mood.

It may not have been the smartest of things to do – drinking during a Zombie Apocalypse – but Francis was right when he said they all needed something just to take a little bit of the edge off. Besides, how drunk could anyone – even a lightweight – get on one solitary beer? Zoey was lost in thought as she drained the dregs of her lukewarm beer.

The walls of every safe room they had come across had graffiti of some kind or another on its walls. Some were rumors and gossip, with most of the rumors about safe room locations being true; those about supplies of guns food, ammunition were more gossip than reality now. There were dozens of hastily penned notes, sometimes from one cadre of survivors to another, from groups that had been split up somehow, and perhaps most touching of all, messages of love and hope, written by loved ones to each other. A small semi hasty but still legible script caught her eye. Where the rest of the messages were bold, and large, this one writer had the penmanship of a lawyer or an accountant. She bent down and began to read.

"The Witch is not a normal infected," read the first line and Zoey rolled her eyes. Anyone unfortunate enough to disturb one and survive the encounter knew that. But she continued reading, "I know, because my wife was one. Yes. I killed my wife. And I wanted to write what I know before it's too late, and this eats me up inside. Whoever you are, reading this, then you should know that you're helping me… survive. I don't plan on letting the infected get me. I'll shoot myself before I turn. But the infected know. They know I killed her. I had to. I have killed the Infected, and a part of you will always feel guilty about that. Because the infected are, were people. But when you kill someone you know that's something else. When you kill someone you know and love because you have to, it's horrific."

Zoey crawled closer to the wall, and stole a quick glance over her shoulder. Bill was still puffing away, Francis was still twitching by the window, and Louis looked like he was about to fall asleep in a chair with his gun cradled like a teddy bear. "What part of this madness is not horrifying?" whispered Zoey, as if she could talk to, and connect with the mystery author, "What part about this isn't FUBAR?"

FUBAR, Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery. She realized that she'd being hanging around Bill a little too much. There was more, in the same hand, but more unsteady, shaky. She read on, "My wife was pregnant, when she was bitten." Zoey's heart, already pounding in her chest was suddenly in her throat as her mouth dropped in disbelief. It wasn't unbelievable that the woman was pregnant, but more about what the writer had done. "I don't think that you can really, plan a pregnancy. We'd talked about it, agreed that the time wasn't right but then it had happened. Neither of us even considered an abortion, and neither of us could wait to be parents."

Zoey read on. And even though she knew the ending, knew what would happen, she couldn't tear her eyes away. Like so many of her nights in college, watching as disaster upon disaster unfolds in horror movie after horror movie, she was unable to tear her eyes from the screen, or in this case, the written word of a stranger.

Those movies were not real. But this, this, was real, and had happened, "So we planned and prepared and when she was five months pregnant, we decided to find out whether we were having a boy or a girl. She was five months pregnant when the infection hit. We were at Southside Clinic, when the infection hit. She got bitten, and hours after that, the infection took Clarice from me." Zoey felt warm liquid slide down the sides of her cheeks. Her hands were shaking and she gripped them together tightly.

The handwriting began to degenerate, "I had no choice." The words were still readable but the pain was there, on the wall for the entire world to see, "She wanted to be alone, and I made the mistake of leaving her side. She cried, and I heard her sobbing as she cried the tears that only another expectant mother who had everything ripped from her can cry."

Zoey trembled but continued to read. It was like watching a train wreck unfold: No matter how hard you try to look away, you just can't. "When I came back, I had a doctor with me. He touched her shoulder and we discovered that Clarice was no longer Clarice." Zoey knew that the doctor was dead. She'd had her own close encounter with the most dangerous of the Infected. A couple of paragraphs were smudged and illegible. She searched the wall frantically, like a monkey on cocaine until she found a second column of shaky writing.

Tears had smudged the ink, but not as badly. Much of it she could read, and she did, "I had…" the handwriting was shaky, a few words were rendered illegible, "…shoot her." But the rest of the paragraph was not, "That's why the witches cry. They cry for the children that they have lost. They cry for their unborn children, the sons and daughters condemned before they are born. They cry for the family that they should have and lost. They cry for those things that they want and will never have. The infection does not deny them a memory of their agonizing pain and loss, the Infection leaves them with only the ability to mourn, for however long their unnatural infected lives last."

Zoey was trembling, as she read the last line in the entry, "That, is why, the witches cry." There was no signature beneath the text, just a set of initials, with a date, that went back maybe two weeks.

"Zoey?" asked Francis. He leaned his shotgun against the wall and knelt next to the sobbing teenager, "Darling, you ok?" His movements were slow and somewhat awkward, but he was determined not to let his own merely physical pain get in the way, or even show. She said nothing, but then what could she say, as she pulled him close and cried against his shoulder. Francis stiffened. He had a violent past and a bad history with women and even he admitted it. That's why he hated women. But with Zoey crying against his shoulder he acted on instinct, pulled her close and just held her, gently but firmly and let her cry. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't hate Zoey.

Louis knew what she had read, and didn't know what he could say. But the confession upon the wall had broken through her infection resistant armor like an arrow through a pane of glass. He cradled his head, hid his eyes in the darkness behind his palms and cried silently. The Witch cries and those that know the truth can't help themselves. Those who understand best sometimes can't stay by their side and comfort them, but those who know, who understand can cry with them.

And for those that have lost everything, mourn for the lost and the loss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

"**Tank" You for Taking The Subway.**

The muttering of the Infected reached Bill through the loosely barricaded door of the safe room. Occasionally he had heard the rumbling bassoon roar of Tank a few blocks away. Bill stood and stretched, trying to shake some of the stiffness out of his bones. Peering between the bars on the door, he could make out a few shapes stutter stepping through the dimness. The lopsided cancer ridden face of a Smoker peered at him from the stairwell, just beyond the shattered wall. It gave a spluttering cry and disappeared from view, Bill made a mental note to warn the others about it later. The worst of what was out there was not nearby. It was a comforting thought. Zoey was thrashing a little in her sleep, her breathing irregular, but when Francis stirred and rolled over, his arm falling across her, she settled a little and fell into a more normal sleep, Bill's mouth turned down.

He didn't like that she was being so affected by this. He didn't like that she was involved in any of this at all. She was just a kid compared to the rest of them, and while she could hold her own in this hell-on-earth, firsthand. "She shouldn't have to live it," he growled softly.

The shuffling footsteps outside drew his attention to the window again. He watched, somewhat detached as one slammed in to another and they began whaling on each other with their already bloody fists. He blinked in surprise as one staggered and suddenly vomited, holding its head as if it was in genuine pain. His heart however beat a little bit faster as his eyes crossed paths with a pair of equally dark eyes peering from behind one of the shelves.

The Hunter crawled cautiously forward when it did not detect a weapon as it tilted its hooded face skyward. Bill could see it, the light illuminating its razor like teeth, bared in a grimace. It held one clawed hand off the ground, the sleeve completely torn away. It held its arm half outstretched as it crouched in front of the safe room, a soft growl rumbling from deep in his chest, "Just like a dog…a damn stray dog." Bill muttered in recognition of the same Hunter that had nearly killed Zoey, "Shoo! Go! Get out of here! Don't make me shoot you!" Bill snarled.

Part of him wondered if he should shoot the Hunter and put it out of its misery as his slid ever so cautiously around the shotgun. The Hunter let out another growl, this one louder and then it leapt up to the hole and vanished. Bill releasing a breath he had been holding. A watch beeped and Bill quickly switched off the alarm. It was quiet enough to avoid attracting any unwanted attention.

Quietly, he moved across the narrow room, and knelt by the sleeping duo, and shook his relief awake, "Francis!" he whispered. A whisper was all it took. The heavy sleeper was Louis, and Zoey was the heaviest sleeper. More than once, the men had joked about firing a shot to wake her. But Francis never needed more than a whisper. It was never a good idea to shake wake Francis – training and instinct had saved Bill from sporting a black eye the first time the foursome had camped together on the other side of Fairfield.

The biker rose and stretched, and looked a little embarrassed. Bill said nothing – he didn't have to. No matter what Francis was interested in, Grandpa Bill was Zoey's ever-present, overprotective father. With a grunt, Francis settled in to Bill's chair and rolled his eyes. He hates being on watch. He hates the vampires out there too. Actually, he hated just about everything that life had thrown at him thus far. Right now, his number one hatred was the bathroom.

Water supplies had been intermittent for a week before shutting down, meaning that there was no flushing the damn toilet. Even through the closed door, the odor had permeated the safe room. With little to do, he let his eyes wander along the shelves. Safe rooms across the city had once been full of supplies of all kinds. Now those supplies were dwindling. With nothing to do, he opened the last beer. It was warm but he was beyond caring about and hating warm beer. For the umpteenth time, he repacked and found that he was actually physically incapable of lightening his load.

He glanced at Louis' digital watch, lying on the table. He had the last watch before they were set to move out. With infinite care and patience – which he had yet to show another human being - he began to strip down and clean his shotgun, letting his mind wander as he did so. It found a familiar train of thought, about how he could be a survivor, how the four of them could be immune to a disease that had single handedly murdered the city, the country and quite probably – the normal morbid train was derailed as something scratched in to the wall caught his attention.

He wasn't' sure if he wanted to read it, considering that Zoey had nearly cracked when she read whoever's account of the hell they had lived through. But this one, seemed different somehow. Much of the graffiti was from split up family members and friends trying to find each other. Some contained useful information – where to find gun stores, grocery stores and medical supplies. However, most of those stores were raided empty. The remaining graffiti were gossip and rumors about evacuation points, and a blend of curses, insults and abuse directed at CEDA. What had caught his eye was the bright red letters done in felt pen. There had been more than a few such "warnings," all about various forms of "new," "different" and "special" Infected. The Hunter, Smoker, Witch and Tank had all started out as "rumors."

The writing was recent, the ink smudged but the few hundred words of text meant it should be easy to spot: Fat, bloated, covered in boils, and makes gurgling sounds. Fragile and easy to kill with a well placed shot. Has a tendency to explode when killed covering everything in a foul slime that attracts, and drives the common Infected in to a blood maddened killing frenzy. Francis blinked, an "Ah-ha!" moment as he realized what Louis had probably killed in a doorway a few hours ago.

Francis hated being on watch, as the creepy moans he could her through the red steel door made his trigger finger twitch involuntarily. Scowling, he turned his face to where everyone was sleeping. Louis lay with his arm flung across his gun, mouth wide open, snoring loud enough to drown the roars of a tank. Bill sat with his back against the wall, hands resting on his salvaged shotgun. Zoey…Zoey had moved on to his spot on the sleeping bag, like a cat searching for the warm spot. He had carried her and set her down there, letting her just cry against his shoulder until they had both fallen asleep. Her matched pistols rode in their holsters and he could not keep his eyes from her sleeping face.

A shriek followed by an arm plunging through the barred window shattered their piece. It flailed at the survivors well out of its rear. Bertha was up, and he pulled the trigger a millisecond before a gust of hot backwash and Zoey's pistols filled the air with smell of burnt powder. In the confines of the safe room, it was like standing too close to ground zero of a steroid enhanced fireworks display.

With ears ringing from the gunfire Louis was the first to ask, "The hell was that?" the arm still dangling through the bars of the door's barred window ended in short, heavier and duller claws of the Smoker that Bill would have warned them about. The cloud of gas that the Smoker released upon its death filled a portion of the safe room with a static chocking cloud of death that had them all coughing.

"What do you think?" snapped Francis. Despite the thin wisp of smoke coming off Bertha. His irritation died at the sight of Zoey, half up, half down with both guns drawn. He was suddenly wondering just how it was possible, that in the middle of the apocalypse, she kept her hair so soft and shiny. He shook his head, drawn back to the present as the others began to move, packing their gear and checking their weapons.

The plan had been to use the subway tunnels to avoid the streets. The plan assumed that there would be fewer infected in the subway tunnels. However, when one makes assumptions, one makes an "ass" out of "u" and "me." First out the door, and on to the battlefield, Bill cursed quietly, the carnage and devastation was the hallmark of the infected. Logically, they were just passing through, chasing the trains.

The ceiling had partially collapsed at some point, mangling furniture and office supplies under a few hundred tons of concrete and steel, but had also punched through the floor, and in to the subway itself. Through the hole in the floor, a car continued to burn, with the entire roof of the stairwell resting atop it, blocking the immediate route back to street level. The gaping hole in the floor lead in to the subway station, and the fire shone bright, on dozens of infected. Logic was such a liar. Footsteps alerted the resting infected to their presence, and then the wind bore their scent. The infected stumbled to their feet, and moaned, almost as if encouraging each other as they began to climb towards the foursome.

"Ah shit! Subway looks to be fulla Zombies," said Bill, "I was hoping that there would be less of 'em down here!" nobody replied, busy slaughtering the rubble climbing rabble. Finally, Bill and Francis leapt down in to the darkness, followed closely by Zoey and Louis. A Smoker stepped out from behind a pillar, claws raised as it stepped towards an oblivious Francis.

"Francis! Nine!" The average human is faster that a Smoker as Bertha blocked the swipe. Loose rocks under foot shifted and he fell back first against jagged stone. A string of shots rang out as Zoey engaged the Smoker. Flowers of oily blood and spurts of smoke blossomed across its chest and stomach and the creature wisely sought to retreat in the shadows and the pillars. With fire in his eyes, Francis rose and reengaged. The first and second blasts clipped its legs and further mangled its left arm. The third and fourth shots effectively finished what Zoey had started.

Francis rejoined his comrades, and did a double take at the anger on Zoey's face, "What?" he asked.

"That was definitely my kill," growled Zoey as she fed Francis a glare that would have, under normal circumstance, unnerved, if not terrified any normal man.

All Francis did was smirk and motioned in to the darkness ahead, "stairs down or the passage to the right?" Francis could tell that the stairs lead in the right direction, and the passage, who knew where that would lead? "I vote stairs."

Everyone else had come to pretty much the same conclusion, making the vote unanimous, "Stairs!"

Descending in to the Holly Street Station, they picked off the few free standing, wandering infected, "Zoey: six o'clock!" yelled Louis suddenly, causing Zoey to spin and slam her pistols in to the infected previously running at her before walking a line of bullets up its chest and head as Louis gunned down several more.

"This way is blocked." Zoey stated. The stairwells on their right were blocked by a cave in. Around the turnstiles, they gathered for a few moments, until Bill finally shone a light on the signs hanging from the ceiling, "Looks like the Red Line North will take us to the hospital."

Francis pushed against the little barriers, only to realize that they were jammed in place when the power failed. Grunting in frustration, Francis backed up and jumped over the barriers, checking to make sure Zoey made it over. Ever cautious, Louis cleared the turnstiles and turned to check on Bill when he slipped and slammed against the bar. The metal pole held him upright for a fraction of a second before it gave with an almighty clang. It was that classic "Oh shit!" moment from the movies. There was nothing but silence, not even the sound of their breathing for several long minutes with only the crackle and hum of the few still functioning fluorescent lights overhead.

Louis chuckled nervously as they all breathed a sigh of relief, "Ya got lucky old man," muttered Francis as Bill picked himself up. Bill stayed quiet, and let the tattooed biker lead them on to the deserted platform. There were signs of recent infected habitation. They had little choice as they made their way forward, down the only unblocked subway tunnel, searching a derailed train car for any useful supplies. The subway was clearly infested and the trains were not running, "I hate subways."

Though there was nothing to be found, the loud rumbling, gurgling sound reached them, Francis took note of it, "Boomer!" he barked, catching everyone's attention.

"The hell is a Boomer?" growled Bill, "I ain't ever heard of them!"

Francis grunted, "Read about them on the wall." Nobody needed a map to find the aforementioned wall, and Louis's sigh made clear what he felt, "Shaddup you wussie!" Carefully stepping out on to the platform, the others were quick to realize that Francis was not screwing around, "Big, fat and sounds really hungry." He replied when asked, Louis sniggered and Zoey giggled. He gave up at that point, "Just. Don't. Shoot. It!"

The short narrow tunnel opened up in to another station, that in a word been leveled by the Infected. They had barely made it out and on to the platform before had walked in to the bloated, sweating, boil covered monstrosity.

When human it had short black hair and had been wearing sweat pants a tasteful enough sweater. The sweater had stretched to the breaking point in a futile attempt to cover a vast gut. They stared at each other for a few moments, long enough for Bill to turn, and catch sight of it before the massive creature belched and farted in the same moment, filling the air around it with a noxious odor that reminded Francis of the clogged toilet in their former temporary accommodation. It groaned at them and then, vomited, all over the pair closest to it, as Louis stepped back just out of reach as the creature stumbled half a step forward.

Still directing a stream of bile and puke forward, Louis's twitchy finger coiled around the trigger and two bullets had left the barrel before Francis could slam it and Louis sideways. But two bullets was enough as they impacted and the creature blew itself apart, spraying watery blood, green vomit, body parts and its internal organs all over them.

"Awww!" yelled Louis, asking aloud what the barf bagged foursome were thinking, "What the hell did that thing just do?" Francis' had read that the creature could attract a horde, but nowhere did it say anything about having the thing actually puking on them!

Blind as they were, none of them could miss the sound of pounding feet accompanied by the all too familiar howl, "Fall back! Back to that subway car!" shouted Bill. The subway car would protect their flanks and rear while forcing the Infected to attack through a choke point, "For Christ's sake! People! Get in here!" They howled when they sighted the survivors, almost as if encouraging their kin forward.

Still half-blind, Francis dropped to one knee and was surprised when Bill did the same next to him. Standing behind them, Louis opened up as Zoey, with her matched pistols, covered their rear, "Here they come!" The Infected were not intelligent to avoid the oncoming bullets, but they were also dumb enough to attack from every direction at once, something they had learned during the early days.

Francis joined Louis, picking off the infected, even as Bill held his fire, "For Christ sake Bill! Shoot the damn things!"

"Fire patterns," muttered Bill, as he took careful aim.

"What?" asked a vomit encrusted Francis, who was excising his hatred of the Boomer, they infected and at that moment Louis. He stared out in to the advancing horde of slavering sub humans and vented on his pet peeve of the moment, "I hate Louis!"

"Fire patterns! Fire patterns! If we both run out at the same time, we'll be up shit creek!" Bertha gave a dry click, Francis let loose a string of curses, "See what I mean?" snarled Bill as he fired, pumped and fired again as Francis slammed shells home.

It worked for perhaps a minute, when Francis and Louis both called out. "Reloading," and gave each other a slightly worried glance as the horde simply kept coming. They were shouting to each other, nearly deaf after almost two minute of continuous gunfire in the narrow confines of the train car. Farther down the train car Zoey had her hands full as she reloaded from the half a dozen clips in her pockets, "Watch my back!" she grabbed a cocktail from her pack, shook the bottle and pulled the igniter tab. She breathed a sigh of relief as the matches flared to life and the rag stuffed in to the bottleneck burned, "Molotov!" She hurled the improvised explosive and it landed on target, setting the rear half ablaze, giving her the time and space to slap home fresh magazines and blow the knees out of an infected trying to climb on to the roof.

Too close for comfort, Francis lashed out with gloved fist and butt stock, smashing a solitary Infected to the floor where his boots finished the job, and the last of the horde. Taking a moment, they were wiping off the Boomer slime when the world began to shake. A roar that rebounded off the walls, amplified and echoing, as if there was more than one of the massive beast approaching. The sound of thundering feet and tearing concrete followed by a chunk of station platform flew towards them. "Watch out!" screamed Zoey as she pushed Louis to the floor.

Glass train windows shattered and crumbled as a hundred and fifty kilograms of hurled stone and steel rebar crashed in through one window and out the other, narrowly missing Francis and almost scalping Bill, who felt the wind of that bullet's passage, "Tank!" shouted Bill.

Louis did not even hesitate to suggest a course of action: "RUN!"

"Master of the freaking obvious!" thought Francis, "I was going to invite it to play Chess… no wait… I hate Chess." Back on solid ground, he pivoted on one foot and fired as the brute charged, gorilla style on it's over muscled arms. The train car had barely survived its accident and derailment, but was not designed to take the sheer physical abuse that a Tank can dish out.

The narrow, restricted confines of the interior slowed the behemoth down enough for them to scramble in every direction. That included the still hot metal door and the glassless windows. Unfortunately for the monstrosity, and fortunately for the survivors, great minds think alike, "Molotov!" shouted Zoey.

"Fire in the hole!" replied Louis as a pair of burning bottles sailed in to the train car, the first passing over Francis's shoulder and in through a broken window. Zoey's fire bottle shattered against the floor and the Tank took offense to her actions as its lower body caught fight. With no small amount of luck, Louis's smashed against its chest. It was in pain and it let them know with a roar as it began to burn alive.

Burning alive only caused it to change direction as it smashed the window frame to pieces. Blind luck had kept them safe from the horde, and instincts honed over two weeks of survival saved Louis for being stomped as the Tank came through the window. But the massive fist of the towering inferno struck and sent him sailing like a champagne cork forced from the bottle, before he landed with a bone sickening crunch against the wall.

The still standing trio was stunned for a moment. They had all gone down before, incapacitated by Smokers – Zoey – nearly been flayed by a Witch – Bill - or even knocked senseless by a Hunter – Francis – but none of them had never ever been on the receiving end of an Tank's fist. She snapped out of her stupor first, "Cover me!" she screamed, barely audible over the triumphant roar of the Tank as it turned its attention to the trio left standing.

Bill and Francis complied, unleashing sixteen shotgun shells and between them, thirty rounds of handgun fire to gain its undivided and angry attention. Wisely, they split up, Bill hopping up to the platform as Francis retreated back up the tunnel. Forced to split its attention the beast took a moment to decide its next move.

At a relatively safe distance, Zoey was able to check two things: Louis still had a pulse, and that he was breathing well enough on his own. That was the moment, when the ground trembled and almost a ton of burning muscle and adrenalin was focused on trying to get its short legs on to the platform to chase Bill, She had two choices: Leave Louis and try to draw it off or stand her ground with two pistols and a trio of pipe bombs. She hesitated for only a moment to make her preparations, involving the pipe bombs and the belt off her jeans and took off running. Her heart pounded in her chest, hand jerked slightly as her gun blazed a trail of holes in the creatures arm. Bill had done it, and he was near fifty. She had half his age, and better reflexes, and her heart had convinced her could do this,

"Zoey!" sounded like Bill had seen her suicidal charge as she fired on the move. Francis had seen her charge and moved round for a shot but then froze with his finger already tight on the finger. She was too close.

Heart pounding in her chest, her head told her that was she about to do was suicide. She dropped her right hand pistol, spent, slide locked back, breech open and empty. Some ten feet from the charging beast, she dropped her second pistol. It had five bullets left but she needed both hands to make this work. Hear head told her she was committing suicide.

The flames on its legs had burned out from being slapped, scraped and rubbed against the platform it struggled to climb, leaving charred flesh and the smells of cordite, gun powder and death wafting in the air and at her. Flicking the switch, she armed the device and for a moment all was silent. Then it beeped, and it turned to face her as her lighter sparked the trio of intertwined fuses. The tank raised its free arm, determined to smash her in to the ground, but it had telegraphed the blow. The heat from the flames still consuming its flesh gave off the foulest reek imaginable, and the flames were blinding, forcing her to squint. The device in her hand beeped a second time. She had six seconds. Seven if she was lucky. Her heart suddenly changed its mind and agreed with her head: This was suicide.

The beast swung and she dived. Her hair whipping around her face, the flaming fist passing so close that she felt and smelt several stray strands of hair catch and burn as she struck the rubble pile. The wind knocked from her, she reached up, fighting the survival instinct that screamed for her to pull her hand back from the burning creature and to chuck the explosive. She gave in, as pain seared her left hand, pulled the waistband of the creature's ill-fitting more-rags-than-clothing. There was a beep as she dropped the cluster of belted together explosives in to its ragged pants. For a moment, it felt like everything was on fire, as if every molecule of air was burning, against her skin, her face and the air in her lungs. Then there was a roar echoed by a crack as the fist of the infected demigod struck home. She was suddenly airborne, a dull ache radiating from the top of her chest down to her waist that was distant, almost detached. There was pain, stars and static dancing before her eyes.

A part of her mind noted an explosion, blood and flesh flying and the death groan of the tank while a chillingly clinical and detached part of her acknowledged that the landing was really going to hurt seconds before she blacked out in preparation for the landing.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

A Witch's Crescendo

Once upon a time, the small room was probably a janitor's closet. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse, it served as a good enough place to hold out for a while. The two men left standing had spent precious minutes, barricading off a portion of the platform, to create a bottleneck that they could defend while their comrades rested.

Louis had been conscious for quite some time nursing three cracked ribs, a concussion and found breathing uncomfortable. Zoey had first-degree burns to her forearms and needed to replace her blackened sweatshirt, and perhaps a hair stylist to sort out her mangled and now slightly crispy section of hair. It was incredible that she had two broken ribs and probably a mild concussion. "Shit Zoey," asked Bill as he stirred the can of baked beans balanced over the small fire, "The hell where you thinking? Were you thinking at all?"

She said nothing, struggling to breathe past the pain was something she going to have to get used to, especially if they had to run from anything in the near future. Broken ribs, cracked ribs, "Non-displaced rib fractures" muttered the biker turned field medic, "Nothing even a doctor could do besides give you pain killers and tell you to take it easy." He paused and met the unbelieving stares, "What? I've fallen off a couple a hogs, and a few brawls to know that a few broken ribs will hurt and slow ya down, but on their own, won't necessarily kill ya."

Bill glanced at his watch and reached in to a pocket for the plastic bottle. He gave it a shake and while the contents rattled, he was worried about just how many of the pain pills they had, "First to aid," he twisted the top off, "Last to die." Louis had taken three, and then another two. Zoey had started out with one, then another two, and there had been thirty to start with. "Gonna need to find some real first aid," he thought about their destination for a moment, "Or a pharmacy soon." The pills would only last them another two days, and at the rate they had been going, it was two days at best to the hospital. Their wounded would slow their pace, making it three, perhaps as many as five days before they would reach Mercy Hospital. He just hoped that any chopper would still be flying the route.

"My pistols, two shotguns and a submachine gun," said Zoey, bringing the conversation back on track, "Everything we've encountered a Tank, we've never had guns big enough to kill it. Even your assault rifle didn't slow that Tank in the alley. Hell, it nearly killed you!" She had a point about that particular engagement. They needed improved weapons, "I took a risk, and it paid off didn't it?"

"You had the stuffing knocked outta ya," countered Bill, "Louis there nearly bought the farm and Francis nearly crapped himself." Francis glared but said nothing. None of them wanted to plant the idea or even encourage the thought of Zoey going "Man versus Tank" again.

What's your point?" she was pouting despite the broken rib and Bill was convinced that she was actually sulking, much like his now ten years estranged daughter used to do.

He shrugged, "I don't have one. It's just not fair that…" his voice trailed off, uncertain how to continue, talking, trying to explain or justify and not sound like he was whining. Whining was something best left to experts like Francis, "Next time, we should just run like hell when we see one of those things." He changed the subject, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She sighed, "Three." Her vision had been blurry around the edges when she'd first come round, and now that it was back to normal, it was one less thing for them to worry about.

"Hey Bill, aren't you worried about my eyesight?" came a rough baritone, keeping watch on the empty platform and train tracks from behind a waist high rubble barricade. The corpse of the Tank, missing most of its legs and stomach was still lying where it had been blown to chunky pieces.

"Sure I am Francis," replied Bill. He adjusted the number of fingers he was holding up, "Which finger am I holding up?"

"Middle… " Francis almost replied before glaring at Bill, much to Louis's amusement. Opening his mouth, he caught sight of the smile that creased Zoey's lip and his own mouth snapped shut. Seeing her smile again, something none of them had seen in days was worth something, worth a lot. Bill could make fun of him anytime, if it would get her to smile.

Bill suddenly realized just how important Zoey was, not just to him, but to the rest as well. She was the barometer of their morale. Laughter, sarcastic humor or just plain teasing she brightened their world, and made surviving, survival more achievable, more realistic.

Louis glanced at his watch. Casio G Shocks were built it seemed, to stand up and outlast the abuse of a zombie apocalypse. It had been only a few hours and they had already butchered two separate hordes that had sought to cross their barricaded kill zone. It was clear that it wasn't them alone, the fact that they smelled human that was bringing the hordes, but also the presence of so freshly slain infected. Blood was blood and blood meant food as far as the infected were concerned. "So does anyone want to tell me what that thing we encountered was?" asked Bill.

"If you mean that really big thing missing its legs and face…" started Francis.

Zoey slapped him lightly on the back of the head, but she winced in discomfort. Still worth it, "No you idiot. He means that fat thing that," Zoey shuddered as she remembered the "attack." Warm, sticky, slimy, and if the smell was not bad enough, the taste would be unforgettable to even an advanced Alzheimer's patient, "puked on us."

Francis raised an eyebrow, "Can't any of you read? The information was written on to the wall of the safe room." Again, the questioning looks and raised eyebrows made him want to reach out and head slap all… well, not quite all of them, "Boomer. That's what they call those fat bastards. They attract a horde of Infected, whenever they puke on anything human."

Louis shifted again, trying to somehow to reduce the pressure on his left side. He gave up as Bill helped him stand, "We should get moving, before another god damn horde shows up." With practiced efficiency, they doused the fire, and with their packs somewhat lighter, they moved on past the corpses, through the next stretch of tunnel and in to yet another station. They paused for a few moments, Bill and Francis scouting ahead – not too far – so that Louis and Zoey could catch their breath. No matter how well Louis could hide the pain, Zoey just couldn't.

"You alright?" asked Louis.

"Yeah…yeah… it's just…." He nodded encouragingly, "not used to getting smashed around by a Tank. But then again, there are worse things than the Tank out there…"

Louis nodded, "You're thinking of the witch aren't you." It wasn't a question, just a plain statement of the fact.

"Not just that…" she hesitated, pulled her own bottle of pills from a pocket. She studied them for a moment, shrugged and popped one. She handed one to Louis, and when she met his stare, handed him a second, "I read something on the wall back there, about a man and how his wife got Infected turned and…" She found it hard to continue, "She turned in to a Witch and he killed her, and now he's out somewhere, trying to live, survive when he's more of a… shell than a real person."

"I get that it would hurt like hell, but do you think, that people who've lost so much more than we have. And its like, how can you consider your own loss when others have lost way more…" She was rambling, but she was in pain, more than just physical pain, the kind of pain that most people never get to experience, that blots out everything, "…inside and out and just leaves you wondering what the fuck is the point, of life, of anything, of everything. If he'd died with her, or been turned they could be together, in a sense..." she saw the look on Louis's face, like he'd just been backhand and forehand slapped by a Tank, "Not too sure what it is I'm saying, or trying to say, ya know?"

Louis did not know what to say, and what she said had just put everything he thought he knew, had put in order in his own mind to help him cope, and turned it on its head. He said nothing, uncapping the bottle of pills he had sneaked from Bill and downed another two. She raised an eyebrow in concern. He was dry swallowing them like candy and he was well past the recommended dosage. She suspected that they dulled more than physical pain.

From the shadows Bill had been listening, just long enough to catch the tail end of what they'd call "guilty blabbering" in his unit about everything from surviving to actual combat kills, to just… killing. Bill had seen this happen mostly to the teenagers and early twenty something fresh out of boot, shipped thirty five thousand miles from home, to fight in a god forsaken country for a reason that they did not know or could have understood. He did the same thing he had done back then, only, changed the words and soften his tone, "Things have changed," he agreed catching both by surprise, "But no matter how much everyone has lost, you need to find something, to hang on to, something worth fighting for." He hesitated for a moment, not sure, if he should get in to his own past, but he had the undivided attention of his audience, "When I was in the 'nam, I saw things, that made we wonder, made me question why, made me ask what was the god damn point of that whole pointless war. I never understood the big political answers and all that horse shit. I fought to come home," he had the bitter smile of a man who'd seen too much, "for my girlfriend."

He smiled at the memory, "I survived my 365 days in the jungles that were the devil's own backyard, with Charlie as his army of attack dogs. I got home, hung up my fatigues and then married her." He clapped her gently on the shoulder, "Find something to fight for, and fight for it. That is what got me through 'Nam and the same thing is getting me through this right now."

Zoey gave him that look she normally reserved for Francis, the one they recognized as saying, "I'm not sure if I should believe what you've said" It was the same look that she gave Francis after he'd claimed to "hate" something for about the hundredth time. Bill wasn't blind to that look of exasperation, amusement and frustration, "Make sure that you and the rest get out alive." He replied. She did not have to ask where or when that would be. She was a smart girl, and figured out that none of them, had figured out the "how."

"Ammo here!" called Francis. The trio shared a glance and moved to catch up with the biker. To their surprise, they also found him testing the balance and sights on a rifle outfitted with a sniper scope. Bill and Zoey pointedly ignored the duo that were busy sniping at each other over the Mini-Ruger 14 "…take your mustache, your vest, and your chaps, and go find yourself a parade!" snarled Louis as he snatched it out of Francis's hands.

Louis's voice had actually gone up half an octave and evolved from a whisper in to a snarl. Nonetheless, Francis seemed more amused than scared of Louis's temper, but gave way as the manager scoped up and checked the collection of magazines, jamming them in to his right hand pocket, separate from the pistol clips in the left pocket to prevent a magazine fumble.

"Ready?" Francis lowered his voice as more moans reached his sensitive ears. He looked at Zoey.

She nodded, "Ready." She sounded confident as ever, but Francis detected a faint waver in her voice. He gave her a smile and she smiled back, slightly hesitant.

"Ready." Louis and Bill replied, almost together. Francis rolled his eyes at the creepiness of that and continued forward. Together, they pressed forward, checking behind each rectangular pillar hidden infected, or worse. Fortunately, they could not hear the worst of the Infected – crying or growling – as they killed several of the common variety.

The tunnel branched, but the left hand passage had been blocked by several tons of fallen masonry, probably the ceiling. That left the right had passage, where a train had come to a halt, effectively blocking the tunnel. The only way forward was through the train when they heard a sudden growl echo out of the shadows followed a moment later by the shrill scream. Louis's new rifle snapped up as he took a snap shot, lead the target and put a bullet through its shoulder as it reached the apex of its pounce and began to descend. "Heads up!"

The biker wore a grim smile and stepped past Zoey in to the path of the airborne Hunter bringing it to a dead stop with his butt stock. Stunned, it fell to the ground "I. Hate, Hunters!" With a crack, its skull shattered and it went limp, "Do all these damn vampires shop at the same store like the Gap or something? They're all wearing the same damn thing!"

"Not this one," commented Bill, as he smacked its limp sleeveless arm, "Same one that got your earlier," he pointed to Zoey "Damn thing tried to pounce you twice."

She gave Francis a brief, gentle hug, mindful of her ribs, "Thanks!" Francis stood flustered for a moment before carefully hugging her back, muttering something under his breath, something about "don't like hugs."

There was the crack of a whip as the heavy muscular tongue of Smoker coiled itself around the closest thing they had to a sharpshooter and tried to reel him in like a fish on a hook. The trio lunged, and managed to pile themselves on top of Louis. There was a strangled gasp and thud as he tried not to scream from having Francis half-lying on top of him there was the snap crack of pistol fire as Zoey finished off yet another Smoker. "Its official," she announced, "Smokers and Hunters are working together to try and kill us!"

Bill shrugged, "they're changing." He reminded them, and at this point, it seemed more than slightly true.

"That's just plain FUBAR," muttered Louis in agreement.

"Uh…yeah… FUBAR," agreed Francis.

They worked their way through the subway car - the only unblocked passage - with its few loitering Infected. Bill and Francis lead the way, cleaning house with buckshot clouds until they were standing amidst the last stand of another group of survivors. The bodies of the dead, human and Infected mingled together and it was clear that when there was no choice, the survivors had opted for suicide rather than be turn. The tunnel ahead had caved in - probably from the force of the blast and the narrow pump room to the right was an equally dead end. "Damnit," cursed Francis, even as he drew his pistol and blew apart several intact skulls. They had all seen supposedly dead Infected suddenly spring to life, determined to attack even without their legs, going for the ankles like rabid dogs.

Louis halted as memories flashed back, memories he was still working hard to suppress to avoid turning in to a veteran with a thousand yard stare that even Bill, in his odd moments would envy, "You ok?" she asked quietly.

He gave a weak smile but to Zoey, he looked like he was about to cry, "Folks I was with before your three wouldn't keep movin'… figured they could just wait it out. They couldn't…" he trailed off. They were either probably dead, more like infected, but there was a chance they were still alive. The tracks ahead were blocked by a cave in, and the steam room to their right was a dead end, but they managed to scavenge enough individual pieces and items to partially restock their medical supplies, and a few tins of food that they threw in to their packs.

Standing around for a few minutes to catch their breath, none of them were interested in asking about the big white elephant that was standing in the room Then suddenly, Zoey's eyes lit up and Francis felt something he'd felt a couple of times before again. It had something to do with the girl's smile, "This way!" She motioned forward and Francis then saw the door. He walked over, jumping onto the platform, and paused to help Louis up. His ribs were sore, and they were bothering him, even if he was not about to say anything, even thanks you. Francis didn't say anything to him either, "It's locked." He grumbled.

She moved him aside, gently and where he would had made issue of it with Louis, or snapped at Bill, he meekly stepped aside and that was not lost on Bill, or Louis who starting humming a song to the tune of "Francis and Zoey, sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g…" She angled down and fired from above the door knob, shattering the lock as the pushed the door open with a creek. The oppressive darkness ahead of them instantly had them on guard and shining light in to the space. It was a short corridor and a flight of stairs leading up, "Least it leads up," said the ever positive Louis, "We should come up a couple of blocks from the waterworks, and that is the right direction to Mercy Hospital."

"Oh look, more stairs. I hate stairs," said Francis. Bill silently agreed. The Vietcong had given him a gift of shrapnel to the right knee. He'd been one of the lucky ones. Too many of his buddies and a couple of friends had been killed in that ambush. Now he hated stairs as much, if not more than Francis did, but he said nothing. He was not about to agree with Francis, who still – in his Marine Corps assessment - needed to get his head outta his ass.

The door opened in to something akin to a crawl space between different levels of the subway system. It was a large empty space with massive concrete pillars flanking either side of the massive open space, clogged with a massive horde of infected. Quietly, they lowered their lights towards the floor, where they would be less likely to draw the attention of any of the hundred odd pairs of eyes. There was a thud, followed by a sudden gurgling sound. They froze for an instant before Louis shouldered his way forward and dropped to one knee. There was little light except for what filtered in through another hole in the ceiling. Francis's eyes were the first to adapt to the darkness due to many nights spent on the open road, without a roof over his head.

Louis's rifle had swept carefully from the left, when Francis began whispering in his ear, "Left side, between the sixth and seventh pillars." The gurgling of the Boomer was an universal directional sound, deflected off the surface, making it seem like the walking bag of puke was all around them, "It's still behind those pillars," whispered Francis as he cautiously brought his shotgun to bear. Eight shells loaded and some more in his pockets, "See her…it?"

The Boomer, it seemed, was not always male. This one looked somehow more female, but that probably had more to do with a bra, stretched to its shattering point by swollen, 44GG cleavage. "Yeah…yeah…" whispered Louis, "Pow!" the rifle didn't roar. The sound was lower, more of a bang. There was silence for a moment, then a muffled explosion, like an underwater detonation. The shockwave staggered the Infected surrounding the Boomer. The single gunshot had grabbed their attention and the fat thing's death had worked them from their stupor in to a frenzy.

Louis was a decent shot with the submachine gun that balanced stopping power with ammunition availability and range. He was a better shot with the hunting rifle as he began picking off those farthest away, "Guys at the office used to laugh at me when I hit the rifle range at lunch. Ain't so damn funny now is it?" he growled, exorcising a demon or two from his past.

Francis felt his respect for the manager go up a few notches. He really did know how to use the rifle. There was the distinctive clink and zip of a Zippo as Bill lit up yet another cigarette from a seemingly bottomless pack and took a careful drag. With the door to the platform closed, they would have early warning of anything coming from behind them. Francis gunned down several Infected that jumped through a gaping hole in the roof over on the far left as the legion of the lost and damned attempt to mount a violent protest at their extermination. Zoey picked off those that got a little too close with her pistols. Bill added a shot where necessary, but was content to cover their rear and smoke his cigarette.

The infected had brought fists to a gunfight, and predictably lost. "Ewww…Gross! Zombie brains!" Zoey wiped her face on her arm. She shot Francis a glare and he gave her his trademark "What?" and gave her a flash of an actual smile.

Bill paused to note that smile that lit up her features and to lesser extent the crawlspace. Having witnessed war, death and carnage in two distinctly different wars, her smile made him pause. It made him pause because for a moment she seemed like the kid she should be. It was a smile he would cherish, and it would also haunt him because it was one of the most beautiful things he had seen, "Glad we didn't meet that Tank down here," remarked Zoey. It was perhaps half a basketball court in size, with the pillars being the only and dominating feature, "It would have had plenty of room to whacks us around." The men chuckled at that as she paused next to a small closet door with the corpse of an unknown soldier, who had judging from the massive scything wounds to his chest, face and arms, had been a Hunter's kill. The blood had congealed but otherwise, he was a fresh kill.

"Guys," they stopped, "he's armed." That was all it took for the foursome to descend like a pack of vultures as they stripped the unfortunate soul of everything except his battle damaged urban dress uniform. Bill pulled the chain from round the man's neck and snapped the break off portion of the fallen man's dog tags and dropped them in to a pocket. Francis searched the webbing pouches and grinned when he pulled a quartet of small green M67 fragmentation grenades which he shared out, "No sense in hogging the firepower," he said, "Share the wealth." Not nearly as effective as their home made pipe bombs, but they would give a better bang for the proverbial buck.

Searching the shadows, Bill kicked the weapon and scooped it up. It was not the M16A2 he'd had, but it was a decent weapon, even if it was restricted to three rounds bursts instead of full automatic fire. Knowing how to clean and operate a weapon was one thing, having a comfortable familiarity with a weapon was another thing entirely. He ditched the shotgun as he went through the motions every marine had drilled in to them during Boot Camp. He noticed the other staring at him as his practiced hands moved over the weapon and shrugged, "this shit's getting' more like 'Nam every second." He passed the remaining shells for his shotgun to Francis, "How many you got left?"

Francis shook his head. Less than a day ago, he had about at least a hundred shells distributed in various pockets and pouches. Truth was that many of the ammo caches they encountered had already been pilfered, and shotguns were something of a weapon of choice among the civilian population who were not marksmen or half decent shots to begin with, "Thirty, maybe forty."

Louis's foot caught something that skid across the concrete. Bending to retrieve the ring of keys, he hefted them, and noticed that one, perhaps a vehicle key was snapped off at the base. He shrugged and pocketed the keys; making a note to hand those to Bill later as they undoubtedly belonged to their soldier, "Come on. Next safe room can't be that far away." With that, Bill turned to the only lit exit and began to climb yet another flight of stairs, when he heard it.

The heaving breaths between the sobs forced Bill to slow his pace. The others caught up and their own sharp intakes of breath made it clear, that they had all heard her quiet sobbing too. It was like de ja vu as Bill knelt on one knee, again cursing Vietnam, its jungles and the VC as his knee jolted him with a lance of pain. The difference was that it was Francis who knelt beside him and flicked the mounted under barrel flashlight to life, 'Hear that witch?" he pumped his shotgun, "I'm gonna give her something to cry about!"

It was an act of bravado, and Bill knew it, but it seemed to cut the tension a little, and he couldn't argue with that. Cautiously, they swung the door open, as pools of light swam over the outlines of heavy machinery. Francis lead the way in to one of probably one of several dozen generators room scattered all over Fairfield that powered the now defunct subway. Climbing over the table that had been placed in front of the door, he waved to the others to follow. They did, quiet as mice in a room full of hungry cats.

In truth it takes very little to disturb a Witch; fortunately you had to be trying to directly interact with it to piss one off. Shine a light on one, touch it, or invade its definition of personal space. Unfortunately, the witch's definition of personal space is a rough fifteen foot circle. The generator room looked like the site of yet another last stand. The bodies were tangled together in messy heaps. The bodies didn't interest him, but the massive mounted mini gun was a point of interest and more importantly, was the massive red first aid box hanging from the wall behind it. Its cries had frozen Zoey in her tracks for a moment but had Louis paralyzed. He hated Hunters –with good reason – but the Witch it was more than that. They terrified him. He didn't need to admit it. They could all see it.

It took Zoey a moment to realize that Louis was hanging back, way back, "Louis? Louis!" she hissed. He blinked suddenly dragged back to the present. He gave a sheepish half smile and moved up, forcing himself to put one leg in front of the other, and then scramble over the table.

With Bill covering his back, Francis tore apart the medical cabinet, taking care with the two vials of pain pills he'd found, handing one to Zoey and the other to Louis when they finally caught up. Their injuries were slowing them down, perhaps a little too much, thought Francis darkly, wondering if he would leave them behind when push came to shove. Louis? Definitely, Bill? Probably, His train of thought was derailed by a grunted squeal followed by a series of shots as Zoey's walked bullets through the Infected duo struggling to clamber up the hole to reach them from the crawlspace below. Everyone stood stalk still as the Witch stopped crying and began to growl to herself. Never a good sign, "That Witch, is not happy," said Zoey through gritted teeth.

It didn't need saying as they all slowly turned towards the still growling thing that was half way to her feet. In the dim light filtering in through the dirty windows overhead, they could see their target and had their sights set in case she did attack. Fortunately the ensuing silence gave her time to calm down, and revert to her lonesome crying, punctuated by sobs, much to their relief which only served to highlight a problem. Bill took a drag from the ever-present cigarette clamped between his teeth and exhaled a cloud of smoke, "That Witch," he whispered, "is camping directly in front of the only way out of here… unless you want to back track through the subway to find another way to the surface?"

Louis's eye went from the door to the Witch, to the pedestal mounted killing machine, "Now, this is a big ass machine gun. If it works, that bitch," he pointed to her, "won't last three seconds!" His terror of Witches it seemed ran a close second to his hatred of them that bordered on passionately fanatical.

It took them only a few moments to prepare as they checked its ammo load, and found that it had a little over half of its 3,000 round box magazine left. The one hundred plus pound Xm134 mini gun was bolted to the floor of the generator room and boasted a 170 degree arc of fire. With the Witch centered in the fairly crude sights, Louis licked his lips. A drop of the hand saw Louis squeeze the trigger of the multi-barreled weapon. They spun up as the Witch reared to its feet, clawed hands raised overhead as it gave a warning howl. It took one step forward and was pushed back by a stream of shells. It slammed in to the wall, and gave a cry, perhaps one of pain as it was cut in half. "Oh hell yeah!" crowed Louis, "I am bad!" the office manager roared with laughter, "I am bad! I am the Witch Hunter!" He fired another stream of bullets in to the Witch, and something cracked, sparked and fizzed on the wall behind the mangled corpse.

Suddenly, the lights overhead flashed and flickered, almost as if they were matching the mini gun's beat, followed by groan of heavy machinery coming to life and the grinding of metal on metal as the steel roller door began to rise, accompanied by a sudden bone chilling howl of multiple voices. Zoey reached out and head slapped the over-exuberant Louis. Dormant florescent lights came to life, blinding the foursome momentarily as they blinked, trying to see more than vague shapes as windows shattered. At the far end of the of the generator room, the infected poured in to the room, from outside, above and even, from behind them and the maze of subway tunnels below.

Half blind, they were barely able to regroup under Bill's repeated shouts, as they grouped around the mini gun, "Hold formation!" yelled Bill as the first of the infected dropped in from above, spinning around to run back at the survivors. Francis frantically beat the closest ones away, wincing beneath their brutal blows. Finally, the main body of the horde was upon them, charging from in between the massive generators. "Warm it up! Everything you got!" shouted Bill, as the first of the horde practically swallowed his rifle barrel and his first bullet, "Fire at will!"

The first burst of his assault rifle was simply inaudible over the screams and pounding feet of the oncoming wall of undead. The mini gun whined as it spooled up and then roared as it unleashed a blistering wall of lead, slicing through the thickest, densest masses of the horde, spraying a red mist everywhere. Easily a hundred were reduced to a red mist by an almost giddy with laughter Louis when a whip cracked. Her cry was crystal clear and sharp over the refrain of gunfire and Infected. There was the sound of projectile vomit and a rough baritone rang out, screaming her name.

The Smoker made its big drag, dragging her down in to the crawlspace where the Boomer had done its deed, sent the remains of the horde in to an absolute kill frenzy and stirred the bloodlust of the Infected that had been, up until moments before, been wandering mindlessly around the subway tunnels.

The voices of the infected rose in a massive howl, and poured in to the small generator room, only to break against the rock formed by Louis and his mini gun, now down to its last hundred or so bullets. Francis had disappeared down the hole in pursuit of them, and he could not leave Louis to hold them alone.

Whatever the Infection was, it somehow made the body of the common infected a depositary of a highly flammable something or other. What exactly that chemical or compound would be something for brighter mind's that the four of them, but the fact remained: The infected burn easy. "Molotov out!" shouted Bill as he pulled the tab on a cocktail and hurled it forward, setting the ground ablaze. He shouted again and a second Molotov joined the first, creating a firestorm in front of the small alcove. It would buy them a few precious seconds.

He reached in to another pouch, and pulled his last remaining pipe bomb. He fumbled in another pouch and pulled his gifted grenade and then started searching through Louis's pants, while the manager kept count of the number of bullets remaining in his gun, "I need your grenade!"

"Back pocket!" The mini gun stuttered once and ran dry and Louis unshouldered his rifle to pick off the more distant infected that had yet to try to run through the flickering field of flames. The lights flickered overhead, threatening to plunge them in to darkness, where the infected would have more than just the numerical advantage.

"You've got eight back pockets!" screamed Bill in frustration as he rifled through the various pockets, pulling and tossing several Nespresso capsules aside.

"Right cheek! Right cheek!" shouted Louis as he fired the rifle from the hip, not bothering to aim at more than the general direction of the dense mass of charging foot soldiers determined to club them to death. Two grenades in one hand, Bill somehow managed to flip the switch and then light the short fuse of the pipe bomb he'd carried for the better part of a week, "God will have mercy. I won't!" read the message on the pipe bomb.

"Pipe bomb out!" It had never failed, and Bill was gratified to see the Infected turn away from them, their glazed, bloodshot eyes following the flying, beeping projectile that held some seductive appeal to even the most kill frenzied Infected who turned their backs on the duo to chase the device as it sailed across the room, coming to rest next to a bank of shelves on the far side of the slowly rising steel rollaway door.

He counted down the seconds and wiped the sweat from his eyes. The pins clattered to the floor, "Frags out!" He hurled the grenades towards the still growing mass of infected, scrabbling and beating each other in their efforts to get their clawed hands on the glittering device. Seconds later, he pushed Louis behind the nearest concrete pillar as one of the generators came apart, hurling fire smoke and machete sized chunks of shrapnel, reducing the horde to the consistency of freshly ground beef.

The duo recovered and they didn't spare a moment to study the carnage as they ran to gaping wound in the floor. Below, the crawlspace was a seething mass of writhing, moving Infected, "Mother of mercy," he whispered and decided that Francis didn't need a few years in the United States Marine Corps to straighten him out as the Infected pounded the heavyset biker to the floor. "On me!" he roared and leapt, assault rifle blazing death in to anything that stood in his way, almost matching the effectiveness of the defunct mini gun.

Francis had dropped in to the crawlspace just in time to witness the Boomer puke all over Zoey, who was steadily being crushed to death in the tongue coil of a Smoker. Already coated in Boomer Bile as she was, he didn't hesitate, pumping one shell in to the Boomer and it came apart like a water balloon pricked with a pin. The blast was strong enough to stun the Smoker, its coils loosening for a half second, opening up a narrow gap distance between it and Zoey. 'Try smoking this!" snarled Francis as Bertha added her own vocal disapproval and physical support to a very violent argument. The Smoker never had a chance to rebut.

Scooping up the bile drenched teenager, he staggered a step, mostly from the smell but also from the weight. Zoey was no feather weight. She was almost a hundred pounds of whipcord muscle. He was lying to himself, as he grit his teeth, ignoring the pain, the tearing as he felt the stitches in one shoulder tear, the wound reopening He didn't care as he scooped her in to his arms, "Zoey! Zoey, darling, come on, talk to me!" whispered Francis.

She winced, holding back a cry of pain. Somewhere, in the close distance they could both hear the whine of the mini gun, and the dull clattering of an assault rifle. She smiled and to Francis's alarm, there was blood staining her teeth as she coughed. No doubt her ribs had been further savaged, "I think I hurt something… bad… real bad." Whatever else she wanted to say died on her lips. He was stained the same greenish black that she was, and the pounding of footsteps, of hands on the door that lead up from the subway made it clear that the Infected had smelt them or the Bile, probably both and the orchestra of chaos and destruction above did not help matters.

"You still with me ki… Zoey?" She nodded weakly as he carefully deposited her in a corner of the room, closest to the staircase that would lead back up to the Generator Room where the others were still fighting. There was the sharp sound of splintering wood as the door on the near distant subway platform gave way. The horde gave another cry, this one of triumph perhaps as the door gave a crack of protest. He set her down on the bottom step, as tenderly as possible to avoid jarring the already broken ribs that probably had company now. He scooped up her pistols, snapped in fresh clips from her pockets, flicked off the safeties, and pressed them in to her hands, "You keep those bastards of my back and I promise, long as I'm standing, they won't touch you."

He calmly fed his shotgun a few more shells, and pulled the grenade from a pocket on his vest, "You going to be the hero Francis?" she asked. Flicking on the taped flashlight was no mean feat, what with her hand shaking. In all the time she'd spent surviving and hiding on her own, before meeting these three men, she had never even contemplated the possibility that she could die, just trying to stay alive. Not even on the fire escape. She'd realized she would fall, but the possibility of death had somehow eluded her, until now.

"Nah… I hate heroes. And I hate that TV show Heroes too." He had his back to her, so that she wouldn't see the half smile that crossed his normally grumpy face, "I guess you can call me a bodyguard."

Zoey giggled, "My bodyguard," slightly delirious, caused by a mix of the pain pills and her compounded injuries.

"First to aid," he muttered as he pulled the pin on his palmed grenade, "Last to die. Hope you were right about that Bill." The first backlit infected saw him hurl the grenade over arm towards it. He heard Bill screaming something above and hesitated for a split second, made his decision and then grit his teeth. There were two of them and a mini-gun between them. They would have to look after themselves for a while.

His brothers in the Pennsylvania Chapter of "Hell's Legion" motorcycle gang had described him as "cocky, loud and pretty sure he's indestructible." He thought for a moment that he could hear the high pitched beeping of a pipe bomb overhead. The horde hesitated. He didn't, "Eat this you fuckers!" emptying eight shells in to the advancing tide of diseased flesh.

His tossed grenade detonated, as he fired his second to last shell and pumped Bertha for the last time. He stepped forward, and swung his shot gun like a club, pulping the face and jaw of an infected. Acting on pure instinct, he pushed back as hard as he could and drew both his pistols and backtracked, firing on the move. A lightning reload later he punched an infected in the face, "You wanna bite of me?" he spun round and punched another. Behind him, Zoey picked off flanking infected, suddenly at peace with death coming for her. She just hoped she'd have a bullet left over if she needed it, to make it quick.

"Come on mutha fuckers!" he screamed as he lashed out with his fists and knees, "Bring it!" he was firing and fighting in every direction at once. Something grabbed his arm and threatened to pull him off balance. The high pitched shriek and then the hunter pounced and slammed him to the ground. Bringing his arms up, he ignored the fire in his shoulders and back, blocking the first swipe of the claws.

Around him, the horde reeled, like dominos, scattered by the pounce. Ground cover from Zoey drilled the offending animal with three bullets through the chest and neck. It seemed to give the horde a moment's pause, pause enough for Francis to get back to his feet, ram home another pair of clips for his pistols, "Bring more!" he fired and bludgeoned and battered them, fully surrounded now, but he didn't care, "Come on mutha-fuckers!"

Life was measured in minutes if not seconds. But he didn't care, so long as he kept them off Zoey. There was no infected dropping in from above so his… friends…. had either killed off the horde and were coming to their aid or had left them to their fate or were dead.

"Francis!" he heard the scream, and a nanosecond later, the blow struck squarely between the shoulder blades. The dull ache raged in to a firestorm that burned down both arms as they went limp and he dropped to one knee. The blows were legion as he curled his arms and legs underneath and tried to push off the floor, only for a wave of feet and hands to stamp him back to the blood slickened concrete floor.

There was a shout, somewhere close by, and then the clattering of an assault rifle, the dull bang of a sniper rifle than a wave of pistol fire. The weight pinning him down slackened and suddenly disappeared as he rolled on to his back. Grasping around in the darkness, blood plastered to his face, almost massaged in to his hair, he pulled himself in to a sitting position, and grinned at Bill, kneeling with his rifle smoking, "Reloading!" shouted Bill as Louis sent another two Infected skidding on their faces. Another chain of rifle fire and suddenly, there was silence.

Louis dropped down finally, pistols drawn and rifle slung, gasping as he hit the floor. No doubt his ribs were giving him hell too. Francis waved off the manager's help "Help Zoey. I'll be ok."

"You sure?" asked Louis.

"Yeah," he coughed, "yeah. You should see the other hundred guys," the zombie genocidist chuckled through the pain. He turned to a still crouching Bill, his rifle sweeping back and forth across the corpse strewn battlefield, the dim light, the stench of death and burnt powder meant that they could not afford to spend a long time looking, perhaps just a few minutes he hoped, "You seen Bertha anywhere?"

Normally grouchy, irritable and cranky Francis was in a worse mood than usual, now that he'd lost the only other thing that meant anything to him – after his beloved Harley Davidson Chopper that hadn't even made it out of the parking lot.

Zoey was going to be all right; all things considered he figured he'd find a replacement sooner or later. The important thing was that Zoey was going to be all right. The security office they were taking a rest in had two doors, but it was unlikely that any infected were left after Bills impressive infected barbecue that had resulted in at least 101 cremations spread across floor of the generator room. The security office had been relatively well stocked once upon a time and it was seeing some semi regular traffic of survivors with several messages scribbled on the walls. The gun locker had been forcibly broken open and Francis was able to get a replacement.

If anything, Francis got an upgrade and was quite happy about it – especially the few boxes of ammo – but he wasn't going to let the others catch on. They caught on the moment he returned to being his normal, cranky grouch self instead of the super grouch he had been just minutes before. He'd spent a few minutes whittling and scratching at the adjustable stock of the Benelli M4 Super 90 automatic shotgun, christened "Bertha II." He blew the last few shards of plastic aside and ran his fingers over the rough carving. He plopped down next to Zoey, who was wearing a guilty expression on her face. He knew why, "How you doing?"

She gave him her trademark "Francis only" look, clearly uncertain where the conversation could lead, "I'm ok… sore but those pills makes it, bearable." She didn't say anything about the almost matching wounds on her forearms that had been treated – if you could call alcohol and bandages treatment.

They both spoke at the same time, and overrode each other. It was like the scene from a bad romantic comedy. Bill couldn't remember the last one he'd watched and actually enjoyed one instead of wishing he was at his dentist for a root canal. Bill said nothing as he Louis washed back the last of his pills with a mouthful of tepid water, "Those are going to have to last you Louis…"

Louis just shrugged, "They help deal with the pain. I'll take as many as I need." He changed the subject, "Not fair is it? We save his grouchy ass and he lets her off the hook. You and me man, we get to deal with whiny bitchy Francis who lost his bertha." There was a dark undertone to Louis's ranting, but Bill didn't take the hint, or perhaps he just didn't want to.

"Just, don't get addicted to the damn things. I doubt that there's a working rehab to check you in to." He said gruffly. Privately, he was worried about Louis and those pills. He'd been popping something, or on something when he him had bumped in to Louis for the first time. Resting quietly when outside a safe room was not something that came easy to the foursome, but they snatched whatever they could, always keeping the most careful watch on their surroundings. Smokers and Hunters would attack through windows if given half a chance.

Regardless, Zoey and Francis were getting along, perhaps a little too well. It wasn't their difference in age that bothered him. It was more the difference in their maturity. Zoey was young, growing up but mature enough to handle the FUBAR situation. Francis was 35 year old teenager, with a gun, who liked blowing stuff up… who knew at least every swear word - and some combinations he didn't know - in the English language. He treated the whole thing like the world's greatest bar fight. But he had double backed for Zoey, and left him and Louis to fend for themselves. He wasn't sure if that was necessarily a good thing or not. But then again, he didn't have much choice besides to trust the man – somewhat. "Time to get moving people," said Bill, "The next safe room, we get a night's sleep and some decent chow."

Moving down the corridors, they heard it but could not see it. There was still somebody flying a chopper over the city. They made it to the window, and could just make out the small craft, flying in from the North West, making its way to one of the tallest buildings in the area: Mercy Hospital. Least their destination was still unchanged. Bill was the first to lead them out in to the warehouse offices, and he cursed quietly as they continued down the hallway to find another set of stairs, "God damn it." muttered Bill, "I hate stairs." Francis, standing two steps behind could not hide his surprise at that but wisely chose to say nothing as they descended, flashlights leading in to the dark atrium of the building.

There was a low growl and they froze. Nobody was quite sure how well a Hunter or any of the infected does see. The regular Infected could still "see" in the traditional sense of the word. The Hunter had two bloody eye sockets and seemed to use something like bat sonar or echo location. The growling seemed to intensify. But the narrow confines of the corridor caused the growling to echo and bounce. Whether it was in front of them or behind them, none of them could tell, "Maybe," whispered Louis, "Maybe its hiding from us?"

Francis grinned in to the darkness and called out, "Hide! You wuss!" there was a thud, scant feet ahead of them.

Standing a few inches from him, Zoey could actually feel Louis trembling, oh so slightly at the presence of the Hunter, "You are dead meat mister," thought Zoey but she wasn't sure if was thinking of the Hunter, Louis, or Francis. There was a shrill cry. Even though he had been expecting it, he somehow wasn't ready for it when the creature pounced. The wavering light should have proved a distraction, but it wasn't. He didn't have night vision goggles, but somehow, he knew that the creature was lunging directly at him. Cool as the smoke off dry ice, he moved and fired, three shots directly in to the near total darkness. A bullet found its mark as the sound of the first shot was overrun by the second and third, split seconds apart.

The Hunter barked, like a spanked puppy and slammed in to the ground, sliding forward on what was left of its face until it came to a halt at Louis's feet with most of its head and face blown away, "Damn son, now that was a shot!" commented a suitably impressed Bill.

"Jump shot!" giggled Zoey, Everyone stared at her for a moment, as Louis chalked it up to a side effect of the pain medications, "What? They jump, you shoot. It's a jump shot!" she explained with another giggle.

Louis smiled, seemingly embarrassed by the compliment as they moved to the front of the building and stared out the glass fronted doors of the building. Bill was convinced he was just too old to get the joke. But if he was too old, that made Francis too stupid. "Good news and better news," said Zoey, "Good news is that there's a safe house down the street. The better news is that there's nothing on the street.

"I got better news," said a cocky Francis, "We can make out way through the building and get a little closer to the safe room."

"Thought you hated buildings Francis," teased Zoey.

Incredibly, the street, the buildings, everything stay quiet. The only noise came for a car, parked just ahead of the pawnshop. Its barred windows had been torn out or down by something but whatever had done the deed was long gone. Ten steps inside they were behind the red painted steel door which them slammed shut and bolted behind them. "Let's see if there's anything to eat around here," said Bill, "And after that, Francis can do the dishes, and I'll take first watch."

"I hate doing the dishes." He muttered, "But I might. Depends on what we're having head chef grandpa."

Bill grinned, and it was almost an evil grin, "Canned spam with pomegranate on rice crackers."

"I hate pomegranate," said Louis, and they burst out laughing, even Francis although he tried not to laugh too hard.

For the first time in what felt like days, they were safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

"**My Bomb's Bigger than Yours"**

He had lost count of how many times he'd done it over the past few hours, staring out through the bars of the safe room door. It was, in many ways like staring through the bars of a prison cell, to see the sky and to see, hear, and even touch the raindrops that fell with a pitter patter.

The rain had never really gone away, raining off and on for days. It seemed to Louis as if God and his retinue of angels were weeping constantly at what had become of humanity, his finest creation. The door he was standing behind lead out in to another one of Fairfield's coiling alleys, going to the left. The right was a concrete wall he was sure would take even a Tank a minute or two to pummel its way through. Good news he supposed.

He glanced at his watch, the face cracked made reading it a little tricky but he managed. The watch on his wrist seemed to be in better shape than him or his three friends, scattered, snoring and sleeping on the floor of the converted pawnshop. But the truth was that they needed more than just sleep. They needed a real meal, real food. "That, and strong coffee that's blacker than my skin," though the former office manager. In many ways, the watch was a good representation of their current situation: Cracked, and scarred but still unbowed, "So where do we stand?" he asked Bill quietly.

"Not good," whispered the veteran, "we're all in bad shape, not a bomb between us. I'm down to about two and a half magazines. Francis is ok for the moment, but a few a small hordes, or one big one and he'll be down to pistols just like Zoey. What about you?" Louis shrugged and patted his pockets, "So about four magazines?"

"And change," confirmed Louis, "We need to get really lucky, take a short cut, or take a short cut and get really lucky." There was a grunt and a mumble from Francis followed by a mumbled from Zoey. She was stretched out across the floor, easing the pressure on her battered ribs, her head resting on Francis's lap, who was leaning against the far wall. He mumbled again and Louis swore the she mumbled something back. Then again, he'd probably just taken one pill too many, and was hallucinating a little.

Bill shook his head, "Wake 'em up. It's time to get moving." Louis unstrapped his watch, set the alarm and tossed it in between the sleeping couple. The alarm beeped. Someone would have though a hand grenade had landed as they rolled apart with weapons drawn on the beeping watch. Louis grinned and Zoey gave him half a smile back. Francis only glared with, irritation written clearly across his face.

The foursome had little left between them. Their packs were just about empty; they had little in the way of medical supplies, and literally next to no ammunition. However, they did not hesitate or even contemplate stopping. They had all made a promise at some point, to themselves, to loved ones, and most importantly, a silent one to each other that they would not give up or stop.

Throwing the door to the safe room open, they moved on through the wet predawn darkness. The rain had not stopped, but on the plus side, it hadn't gotten any worse. As always, Bill lead their expedition, Francis and Louis covering the flanks with Zoey bringing up the rear, her hood pulled up over her head in a feeble attempt to ward off the drizzle of rain. In the feeble light of the alley, one could easily see the dark circles, and blood shoot eyes of the foursome. They were perhaps worst on her, and as much as Bill did not want to admit it, she slept best when curled against Francis, ever since they had all read that story on the safe room wall about a witch and her husband some days before.

The alleyways behind the pawnshop were devoid of any kind of life and for that, they were grateful. Even Francis, who would never admit it, was glad for the silent desolation that surrounded them. However, there was that growling, that kept Francis and Louis's heads snapping back and forth. Louis swore that there was a dark shape up there, flying gracefully between buildings above them. He was not sure if he should be worried about the Hunter following them. But that was the least of their immediate problems: "Smoker!" Zoey suddenly shouted and their guns rose and swiveled round, drawing a bead on a chimneystack. The lingering trails of smoky spores were a clear indication that what she had seen was true. "Those damn things are getting too damn smart for their own good."

"Bad news for us," muttered Bill, "Keep moving people!" Their attention was split in every direction, above, behind and in front, for the Smoker, possibly a Hunter and the regular hordes of infected as they followed the alley, an open doorway beckoned but Bill kept to the alley, following it as it curved to the right and they found themselves doubling back the way they had come. Bill shrugged, ""I don't know…which way from here,"

"We should try the building back there," suggest Louis.

"You have any idea where it goes?" asked Francis as he squinted in to the rain and scanned the roof tops.

"No," admitted Louis, "But it's got to lead somewhere and that probably beats circling the alleys till Christmas!" With Christmas still five months away, he had a point. They had barely begun to backtrack when their point man held up a clenched fist. Not a good sign. Their firing line firmed up immediately. The first hoarse shout of the horde reached them and they came out of the cloaking darkness and rain ten feet away. The pitter-patter of rainfall had masked their cries, shouts, and footsteps from human ears. The rain reduced the effectiveness of their flashlights, reducing their ability to see. The weather was suddenly an enemy, perhaps a greater one than the infected even. "I hate rain," remarked Francis.

Zoey nodded her agreement, "Yep. Rain sucks!" Francis raised an eyebrow and she smiled back. She had always preferred sunny weather anyway, that and she could feel the bruises that decorated her arms from too many encounters at knife fighting ranges. Any gun is sufficiently effective against the infected, but the vast majority of handguns and revolvers lack either the stopping power or the ammo capacity to be anything more than backup arms against them.

Zoey had developed something of a sharpshooter's eye when it came to placing her shots, almost always hitting them through the upper chest, neck and head to avoid even more bruises to the black, blue and yellow patterns that already marred her skin. Even as the horde struggled to close, the foursome advanced in to them instead of retreating, culling them with ridiculous ease as they pushed towards the temporary bastion of safety that would be the aforementioned doorway, and wherever it led.

With Louis just inside the door way firing in short bursts, Francis growled and muttered curses under his breath as Bertha II continued to send buckshot through the ranks of the infected. Bill kept up a string of three round bursts, taking shots at the more distant infected as Zoey, did the same, to those that had somehow come in a little too close for comfort, "Man, a single Molotov," she thought, "and it's a zombie barbecue."

There was a muted cough, or gasp from somewhere behind them and Zoey turned to check. Her eyes widened in horror: It was, most likely the Smoker she spotted earlier that had now outflanked them. Up close its skin was the same disgusting grey as that of the rest of the Infected. The tumors and pustules oozed oily blood or little clouds of smoke and spores. The growths decorated its left shoulder and arm, and much of its face. The leather like nodules half-obscured its face and covered one eye. The thing was leaning to one side, as if the extra weight was too much to carry.

The thing looked as surprised to see them as they were to see it, but it recovered more quickly than Louis could and raised one clawed hand to strike with a bone rattling gasp. Zoey swung wildly with a warning cry as a hand closed on the back of her hoodie and tugged her just out of reach of the swiping claws so that they only ripped fabric and left light scratches instead of surgically incising flesh to the bone. She was no more off balance than the Smoker was but she pumped a magazine in to its chest. A few drops of fresh blood spotted her gore encrusted sleeve. Nothing to worry about, but Bill's face on the other hand, was. "Stick. Together."

Zoey nodded and he returned the gesture. Francis and Louis were busy splattering the horde all over the alley. Over the rain and roar of gunfire, none of them heard the gurgling, rumbling sound. It had been tracking them, following their smell, that of food, and it was more than slightly hungry. It was starving. But then, it was always hungry no matter how much it ate, it would eventually find new food, fresh food, disgorge itself of its last meal and then eat again. That was what it did.

When it had encountered one of its long tongued brethren earlier, they had agreed to work together, to first kill and then share the food. His sheer bulk meant that he would get the lion's share – not that the Smoker disagreed with the proposition. After all, the Smoker would get the young and tender looking one. That was not to be as the food had used their thunder sticks to drive away their lesser, mindless brethren and then killed his Smoker companion.

In terms of intelligence in relation to the Infected, it was definitely smarter than the regular infected, and quite probably smarter than most of its more evolved comrades. It knew its own, bodily limitations well. It had stuck to the roof tops as much as possible, staying as far as possible, out of the sight of the food until this moment, when they were all distracted and now. Now was the moment. He could see them, below him, standing in the light. The tender one's smaller thunder sticks – and she had two – were no longer working. And one more, the one who was nearly always the first to shoot was punching at his lesser. Its stomach gurgled loudly and rumbled, in anticipation. It was hungry before, now it was starving.

It leapt...

Acceleration caused by gravity, barring friction is approximately 9.8 meters per second and the seven to eight meters between the roof of the diner and the alley floor was not enough for the walking pile of fat and vomit to reach terminal velocity but it was enough to cause the grotesquery to liquefy on impact. Something worse than rain splattered on the foursome and moments later there was a chilling howl, from somewhere ahead of them.

There was a howl from behind them, from the other side of the building they had been planning to cut through, "Well, shit," remarked Bill as they collapsed inside and slammed the door to the alley. They stumbled around, blind for a few moments. Covered in vomit, they tried to space themselves out from each other to escape the stench that would eventually work its way in to their skin, and seemingly never come off. Through the small window that connected the kitchen to the rest of the place, they could see in to a truck yard.

Though there were no street lights to illuminate the area, the floodlights illuminated the emblazoned side of the warehouse, indicating that it was the property of the Hersch Shipping Company, "since 1948." The foursome immediately lowered or snapped off their flashlights as they stayed a safe distance from the windows. Loaded 40 foot containers sat ready to go, and it looked like somebody had tried to drive out in a desperate attempt to escape the horde. The trucker, was probably somewhere in the mass of infected that continued to grow, clambering over the fence at one end, leaping down from the roof of the three storey warehouse or coming through its windows. The rain seemed to pick up, as if God was trying to wash the tide of infection away. God wasn't having much like. Neither were the survivors, outnumbered hundreds to four.

Bill sighed and pulled the battered steel grey cigarette case from his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case then a single battered stick. He lit the fresh smoke, leaving the battered; vomit soaked one behind his ear alone, "Good luck charm?" asked Zoey.

Bill nodded, and exhaled, taking care to blow the smoke away from her, "Buddy of mine offered me a smoke while we were on watch. He dropped the case, I bent down to pick it up, and his head came apart. First casualty in my unit from the Commie's Tet Offensive back in '68." The veteran had seen more than his fair share of death, and it helped him cope and process the apocalypse, even if he didn't understand it. But if the consummate veteran had been nervous during 1968, he was scared now.

The glass would only hold for a few moments before giving way beneath the fists of the infected. Zoey wasn't sure what smelt worse: the decaying food half eaten in the front of the diner or the vomit they were covered in. The smell of death was joined by that of decay. The diner had probably been serving lunch when everything went to hell on a platter.

In the kitchen Francis and Louis ransacking of the kitchen cupboards and shelves turned up absolutely nothing they could use. Francis wasn't afraid of the individual vampires, or even hordes of them. Then there were those super vampires. Louis hated Hunters and Witches. Zoey, she definitely hated Smokers. He just hated all of them, and with only a few shells left, he was worried about them too, "Anybody find anything?"

The shelves had already been rifled and just about anything of any possible use had been taken. It has been said that discretion, is the better part of valor and they withdrew, hoping to find a way around the semi static horde in the truck yard but, it was not to be. The replies were all negative and they looked at each other. None of them wanted to say it, but they all knew it.

Locked, and loaded, Bill leveled his rifle at the now cracked pane of glass, "Let's get this done!" Together, the opened fire, bullets and glass tearing through the first ranks. Muzzle flashes illuminated the angry, lust maddened faces of their enemy moments before they were pulped. The collected infected seemed to twitch like an amoeba reacting to an electrical pulse. Over a dozen infected were dead. More than one infected howled. "Last mag!" shouted Bill, slamming it in less than a minute in to the fight. "Louis! Adjust fire left!"

Louis complied, emptying his magazine in to the press of bodies, downing more than a couple of infected, but missing arms or legs didn't stop them from continuing their suicidal attack. The sheer density of the infected meant the twice dead were held upright and in place by the crush. "Reloading!" replied Louis as he snapped in his last magazine in to his rifle. Perhaps fifteen seconds later, he dropped the empty hunting rifle and drew his pistols as Infected rained in to the compound, mocking the weather.

"Re-god-damn-loading!" shouted Francis, as he reached for his last shell, "Last six!" with at least another forty infected closing.

"I'm out!" fear tinged her voice. She searched the kitchen for an improvised weapon, frantic at the thought of facing the infected unarmed. The horde's had the numbers, but she grabbed a frying pan off its hook and swung with all her might, braining the closest zombie.

"Crap," muttered Francis, as Bertha II gave a dry click, he sidestepped and slammed a fist in to the face of the same, knocking it and the rest of the horde back for a moment, "Well kids," he though as he slung Bertha II on his back "it's been fun." His pistols rested comfortably in his hands and he raised an eye brow at Zoey's new weapon and she blushed, albeit slightly or perhaps he was just imagining it, 'Frying pan?" he asked. It took a moment to register exactly what she was thinking, and he remembered it all with a smirk, "I…guess frying pans are ok."He handed her one of his side arms and slid another four magazines in to a pocket. Wondering how in the middle of this, how her hair could still smell like apples and cinnamon. Awkward, he gave her the briefest of hugs, "I'm going down swinging, and I'll bring the god damn building down around these fucking vampires!"

Almost automatically, both men snapped out the correction, "Francis! They, are, zombies!"

Zoey blinked, and kissed the leather and vomit encrusted biker, "Francis! You're a genius!"

"I? What?" he asked, "I am?" he watched in momentary confusion as the teenager went to the stove and began flipping on the gas "Everyone! Back to the alley! Go!" she shouted, pushing first Francis then Louis and back in to the small store room as she flipped the dials along the stove. Bringing up the rear, she pulled a spare book of matches, bent one and struck it, and hurled it over her shoulder as the horde stormed the narrow doorway to the kitchen, as more swarmed in from the truck yard. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she almost cried as the book of matches fell to the floor, sodden with rain and vomit.

Bill took a last drag. Ash and sparks flew from his finger tips as he flicked the burning cigarette in the kitchen, over his shoulder. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed the fiberglass blanket from its vertical release case. It unfurled of its own accord, just in time as he rounded the corner, diving on top of his comrades as the gas vapors ignited, slamming them all to the ground, on the cusp of the alley.

Fire screamed and consumed the gas, and everything in its path including the horde of infected desperately clawing and cramming to reach the foursome. Flesh blistered and charred under blinding heat as the kitchen and seating area of the small diner went up in a cloud of burning glass, concrete and furniture. The four walls and most of the roof stayed in place.

"I think we just about used up all of our luck," thought Bill, pulling himself off Francis and Zoey. Knowing that if he ached in places that he didn't know could ache, their ribs would be killing both of them. Incredibly, they'd come through with nothing more than a few more bruises, cuts and scrapes. They had to practically shout to each other to be heard as they picked their way out of the rubble and in to the truck yard, more than a little dazed as they scampered around, quickly searching through whatever was left of the building.

They had nothing but their hand guns and a varying amount of ammunition for their nonstandard hodge-podge of handguns. When you were out, you were out. It was as morbidly simple as that. The only bright spot amongst the carnage was the presence of a shredded infected in combat fatigues, with two grenades clipped to his belt that Francis scooped in to a pocket. Their arsenal was borderline pathetic, and if the Infected hadn't smelt the boomer puke, then the explosion would bring them from miles around. Time, like the weather, was now their enemy.

Picking their way through the rubble and in to the truck yard, they found themselves trapped in a dead end. Adding insult to injury was the truck yard's main source of lighting: The green glow of the hospital's massive emblem. That and the chopper they could see flying away from the building. Added salt to the wound perhaps, but at least the evacuation route was still open. The fastest way would be through the warehouse. and Francis was the first to find something that could work, "Think this old thing might work?" he pointed," If we get up to roof level, it's a straight run to that store room up there and the offices and stuff."

Whether or not his idea had merit, it was about to be put to the test, "Incoming!" shouted Bill. The slavering hordes were clawing and then climbing the fences at the end of the yard. A pair of shrieks announced the arrival of a pair of Hunters that dropped in to their customary crouches and seemed to be waiting, but were more likely studying their prey. Interspersed amongst the ranks of common infected stood a Boomer that seemed to roll forward more than walk as a Smoker stutter stepped its way through the press.

Francis had a golden rule about survival and about life in general: Watch out for Number One. With the horde bearing down upon them, Francis growled his gaze jumping from Louis, perhaps valued at about two-thirds, and Bill who rated about the same. "Get on the lift!" Zoey hesitated, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the horde, and Francis. Francis mumbled something, which sounded like a confession of something, whatever "three quarters" meant. He pushed her up and in to Louis's waiting arms, seconds before the machine whined and groaned as it came to life and began to rise. A sliding ladder built in to its side automatically extended as the machine reached half way up, "Somebody remember to stop that thing!"

Turning to face the oncoming horde, he walked back in to the gas station, taking a knee between the gas pumps. His hands rose as he took aim and began to fire in to the mass of bodies. The range was a little too far for him to realistically aim and hit a specific target. But that didn't matter. Somehow, he popped the Boomer like a box of overripe watermelons. Francis was going to make a point, that no matter how good the rest of them were, he was still the baddest man on earth. He was carrying the pair of grenades after all. Hidden from view, the only thing that let the others know that their biker was still alive was the gunfire, blocked by the awning over the petrol pumps.

"I don't know what he's doing;" growled Bill, "But I definitely don't like it!" The range was still a little too great for the small caliber weapons, and Francis was just wasting ammo, and bringing down a world of hurt on himself

"Francis!" shouted Zoey. He'd saved her life, more than once since they got together, and now he was doing something probably equally reckless and desperate to save all of them. She almost leapt down, only to have Bill and Louis grab on to her with surprising suddenness, each of them taking a firm grip on an arm.

"He knows what he's doing," said Louis quietly, "At least, I hope he does," he added to himself as they waited, weapons drawn, sights set. The horde was past the diner and the first of them had crossed the invisible line in the road. The pistols were not as effective as larger caliber weapons. Their 9mm rounds were effective at killing the individual infected but seemed to lack penetrating power of heavier 55.6 or 19x9mm ammunition. Where they could "lawn mower" the infected in the past, they now had to systematically aim for the chest and head. Not an easy task.

The high pitched scream drew their attention away from street level as a Hunter attacked. One landed directly on target, slamming Bill off the elevator and on to the roof. Pain ripped through the man's back but he'd seen the Hunter coming, and _dropped _his guns in anticipation. Louis wavered for an instant between covering Francis and helping Bill, "Cover him!" ordered Bill with a shout, "I've got," Bill's hand was wrapped around the grip of an unsheathed KA-BAR, "this," he stabbed up burying the full seven inches of the blade in to the Hunter's chest and heart, before yanking it out and jamming it in to the sightless left eye socket, "Bitch!"

The sheer mindlessness of the horde made them dangerous, and deadly, but fairly easy to outsmart. He'd drawn them in to the effective blast zone. Now he turned and sprinted with the hounds of hell on his heels for the ladder. With good reason: He'd switched the pumps on and dropped both cylindrical grenades, sans their pins in to the rapidly spreading pool of gasoline. Even he could read the printing on the side of the cylinder: "AN-MI4, INCEN 10SEC." They weren't the traditional fragmentation grenades he and Bill had used down in the subway. These were thermite incendiary, with a ten second delay, "Hey Zoey!" shouted Francis, almost laughing as he scrambled up hand over hand like a monkey, "My bomb's gonna be bigger than yours!"

Francis had barely reached the top when he jerked back, a Smoker's tongue coiled around his legs, threatening to pull him down in to the horde now beating on each other in their desperate attempts to climb the ladder. Grabbing the biker's hands, he felt the pins still looped around the gloved index finger, "Frag out!" screamed Bill. To his left and behind him, Louis recognized the screamed warning and slammed Zoey on to the roof of the warehouse, covering her as best he could. Bill severed the Smoker's tongue with his knife and yanked the biker in to relative cover.

The diner's explosion was a firecracker by comparison. Over five thousand gallons of liquid fuel ignited and went up in the time it takes a human to blink. The bulk of the horde was caught in ground zero, did not ignite or burn but vaporized. Whatever elements of the horde were beyond the range of the initial blast were peppered with wood, metal, glass shrapnel as the roof of the "Pump and Run" Gas Station came apart, a massive fireball screaming up in to the night akin to the mother of all signal flares. For a moment it seemed as if the fireball would not only illuminate everything for several city blocks, but also chase away the storm clouds and rain. Everything fell silent, either dead, crippled or simply too dazed and stunned to make a sound.

Bumps, cuts, bruises, and further aggravated pre existing injuries aside, the only addition was a dull ringing in their ears from the concussive force of the blast as they half scrambled, crawled and stumbled their way across the roof top towards the blown out glass window. What should have taken minutes took almost ten, drawing what strength they could from their aching bodies, and from the glowing green of Mercy Hospital's emblem, a beacon of hope in the darkness as they finally collapsed in to the top floor of the warehouse, battered but unscarred, "You think, we can stop for a minute?" gasped Zoey through the pain.

She was not the only one hurting, and Louis was quick to voice his agreement, "I think we can take a short break here… don't think we left any infected alive for at least a coupla blocks after Francis… farted like that." The joke fell flat, now if only the Boomer's bile would do the same…

Collapsing against a rack of shelves, the contents in the massive boxes rattled, but Bill was beyond tired, almost beyond exhaustion, "We're close to the Hospital... and you're right. There can't be that many left…a rest stop is gonna do us some good but we can't linger too damn long," He pulled himself back to his feet, "Let just take a look around these offices. It should be pretty easy to defend, from the looks of it. There's got to be something we can use too," he added as almost an afterthought.

"What for?" growled Francis, as he looked out across the roof top, almost twitching as he did so, "We've got next to no ammo, and practically no food. I say we keep pushing till we hit a safe room."

"What for?" Bill turned to face Francis, a grimace twisting his features, "We're soaked to bone. My bones ache; we've been scorched and damn near barbecued! Zoey and Louis need a break to rest those ribs that are damn sure not getting any better! And I need a cigarette!" he pulled the dented case and took out yet another cigarette, "If you don't wanna stop, feel free. Go on ahead. If you don't feel like dying, shut your damn mouth!"

It wasn't the first time that the pair had come to verbal blows over something, and it was not going to be the last, but the blazing heat in Bill's words left Francis without a comeback as he turned set off to explore the small room, watching the shadows and corners for the elusive hunter or any other infected that could be lurking about. Zoey and Louis followed and Francis, "one eighth maybe," grumbled the biker as he followed them down through a hole in the floor.

The warehouse offices were surprisingly spacious, and the surprising part was the small bathroom, complete with sink and toilet. It was tiny, but they could at least take turns using it. Zoey collapsed in to an abandoned yet comfortable looking office and let her eyes flutter close with a sigh of relief, and day dreamed for a moment about a long, hot shower, where she could was her hair – a nonexistent luxury that they had all taken for granted.

The sounds of life surrounded her, Francis and Bill attempting to talk, civilly, almost cordially to each other while Louis took his time, in the bathroom, getting as clean as possible, getting whatever slime and blood out of his now pink and green shirt and pants. When it was finally her turn, Bill had just finished washing up and she could tell, by the look in his eye that he was waiting for her, "I, want to talk to you about something," he murmured, lighting another cigarette and leaning back against the door.

In another life, Zoey would have not agreed. But Bill had saved her life on more than one occasion, she stepped in, and he nodded to the door, "Close it, it might be best, if the others don't hear about this, ever."

With the door closed, there was very little room for the two of them to maneuver, as Bill sat atop the toilet, and blew his smoke up towards the small vent in the ceiling. Zoey nodded her appreciation to that, "I know I'm getting in to your business, and for that, I apologize, but this is… it's about you and …."

Louis blinked as the bathroom door closed, and from his seat, he stared at the closed door for a long moment before standing, stretching and shuffling over to where Francis stood, keeping a diligent eye on the door and the shadow filled hallway. Louis cleared his throat, just to let Francis know who was behind him, "You ever get the feeling that we've got a little survivor romance happening?"

Francis turned and fired him a confused expression, complete with raised eyebrow. His eyes scanned Louis 's face for a moment and then the background detail grabbed his attention, his eyes widening and his expression turned in to one of discomfort, maybe even horror, and perhaps a tinge of disappointment as he looked down at his shoes and then wrenched his gaze back in to the corridor, "That hurts Zoey. God damn. That hurts." He thought silently. 'What the hell?" he snapped out of it, "Man!" he shoved Louis with an elbow and made a disgusted noise, not letting how he really felt slip through, "Totally, not happenin!"

Louis could only rub his already bruised arm again and smirked slightly, similar to the smirk he'd shared with Zoey some days back in an alley, half way across the city, "Why not?" he dragged out the syllables like a drunken teenage would have, almost as if mocking the biker.

"For one, Zoey's too hot for Bill. For two, she's too young for Bill. Three: bill's an old man and not interested in hot girls like Zoey. Four, and the clincher: I think, Nah. I know Zoey likes me better."

Louis' couldn't resist, the rain had stopped at some point and while the diner was no longer a burning wreck, the fuel tanks from the gas station were still blazing away, without a care in the infected world, "Just because she gets all cuddly with you for a couple of nights, does not mean she likes you like that." Louis's smirk evolved in to a grin, "I think she see's you as her big brother!"

Shot down and left without a comeback, twice in an hour, Louis administered the third strike, almost surgically, "I think that's why she's locked herself in a bathroom with Bill, and you're standing out here, right?" Louis's voice had more than a hint of amusement in it, and being pushed in to the wall again did nothing for the shit eating grin.

Francis turned his gaze back to the corridor, and the window at the far end. The rain was falling again, washing away blood, and puke and the taint of the infected. "Think what you want," muttered Francis, "But, if you're going to just stand there, make yourself useful and keep an eye out for vampires." He knew that Bill, military man, straight – well straighter arrow than him at any rate – wouldn't do _that _with Zoey, but what hurt was that she'd gone to him, with whatever it was instead of him… that's what hurt so damn much.

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	7. Chapter 7

Interlude II

Frying Pans and Firearms

How many days had it been? Truthfully, she had no idea, but at least three had passed since the world began its descent in to madness. She knew the horrors first hand, having had only seconds to spare as she grabbed her small backpack and made a leap of faith out her first floor window. She somehow managed to catch the branch and hold on for a moment, the hammering blows became a loud crack as the door disintegrated under the barrage of blows.

The tree had been a well used short cut to avoid the bible thumping puritanical RA had taken a room that offered a strategic view of both the stairs and elevator, so that he could "save" as many "lost souls" as he could. Ironically, they had probably made a beeline for him, drawn by his taste for "calm soul cleansing music" and "always open door."

Her own leap of faith aside, she found herself wishing she'd spent a little more time outdoors, track and field perhaps so she could really put some distance between her and the infected maniacs now trying to eat her. Even as she ran, practiced fingers and thumbs tapped out messages to friends, family, loved ones on her cell phone, but her messages never made it out. There was a signal, but the networks were overloaded. A minute, perhaps two, of running and it felt like her lungs would collapse and her heart burst as she staggered to a stop and critically eyed the grocery cum supply cum hardware store on the edge of the campus that supplied everything that the students at Mercy City College could need or want, including substances of the illicit variety when the right cashiers were on duty.

The lights were on inside, the door swung back and forth in invitation. The heavily barricaded windows only added to the invitation and the appeal. She staggered inside, slammed the door, threw both bolts home and collapsed. Sweat streamed from her brow and plastered her hair to her neck. Although bright, the store had never been well lit, and it took her eyes some moments to get used to the dull brightness, the silence and peace.

After the madness she had just witnessed, silence and peace were welcome, now if only it was not quite so dingy. Her iPhone was fully charged, and so was her blackberry, but they were practically useless. Every friend, even family either never received her frantic messages, or they never replied. With her friends, it was probably the later, and family in to the former. She had never really gotten along with any of them. Most of the time, she received the same robotic idiot voice that gave her one of a half dozen variations on the busy operators or busy lines speech.

On day five, the batteries on her phone gave out. Later that same day, her Blackberry gave out too. And the power to the store had already been gone for a day, perhaps a day and a half. Having spent all of her time inside, she had no problem navigating the store in the dark, especially since she could only open a few of the small windows to let the stench of rapidly decomposing food stuff from overwhelming her sanctuary.

Through those few open windows, she could hear them, the shuffling, the growling, the coughing and perhaps somewhat more uncommon was the gurgling of something and even once, the angry roar and pounding footsteps of something in the near distance. But she stayed quiet and they never knew she was there. So when something started booming just outside her sanctuary, she panicked. Scanning the shelves, she grabbed the nearest thing that she could wield and shrank back, knocking over a display in the process. She froze and whatever was outside did the same. Through the narrow gap in the window, she could hear the voice, muttering and mumbling and her heart beat went from street racing BMW to Japanese bullet train.

Whatever was outside immediately redoubled its efforts, slamming something against the door. The door cracked, and the first rays of sunshine crept in for the first time in a week. She lowered her scavenged mini-maglite and took a deep breath, trying to steady her fear and damped down her nerves. Whatever was outside continue pounding and she glanced towards the back door, wondering if she could get it open and then make another mad dash to freedom if the front door did give way. In the back of her mind, she knew that there was no way the bolts would move without the key to the padlock and she almost gave in to the wave of despair and fear.

All at once paranoid, insecure and terrified, she swore she felt something within snap, inside her. She was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of jumping at the sound of a windblown leaf, tired and anger with all of it! Rage welled up inside her and she grabbed her impromptu weapon by its long black handle and dropped in to a crouched, welcoming the shadows as she watched and waited, for the door to give.

The blast was sudden and completely unexpected and she nearly dropped her weapon in fright. There was a dull, mechanical, almost video game "ka-chink!" as another blast blew the door from its hinges, reducing it to matchstick and kindling. Her impromptu barricade disintegrated along with the door. She began to silently fume at the point. The door crumbled to the floor and the intruder stepped in, confident, and cocky, stepping on to the remains as light streamed in.

She cursed, barely above a whisper as she struggled and blinked against the rays of sunlight, left almost phobic of it by her days in the darkness. But she didn't need her eyes to see when she could hear, and sense where the intruder was. Within her sanctuary, he needed to take just another step to the right.

Glass tinkled as an empty soda bottle danced across the floor, and Zoey rose in rage before the tinkling had died away, screaming out her anger, frustration and hatred of a dying city, and of the Infected. The volume and intensity of her war cry intensity would have scattered children like tossed marbles. Locked in a two handed grip, the frying pan descended like a samurai sword.

He had heard the collapse of the display and assumed that there would be more of the crazy vampires inside. He had on some level, already made peace with the fact that the vampires would be what killed him, when he ran out of bullets, luck or probably both. Death by vampire, he could live with. He could accept. But, by frying pan? He shuffle stepped back on to something and felt his legs fly out from under him as whatever it was rolled out of the way while he winged his way through the air with the grace of crippled airplane, his hand jerked and a cloud of buckshot peppered the ceiling. Stone shards, dust and pain floated down as the pan collided with the counter like the slamming of the gates of hell.

Struggling, he'd pulled himself upright enough to grab his nearly discarded shotgun, and pumped the action to cycle another deadly shell in to the chamber. Francis roared as he sat up and blinked at the teenager standing over him with the frying pan raised for another stroke.

It was akin to that moment in the movies when the haughty talking cat and snooty arrogant dog with celebrity voices meet for the first time. "You… you're not infected," she whispered, almost in disbelief at seeing another human being, the first one she had seen in quite a long time.

They stared at each other for a few moments, "Oookay…. You wanna tell why you're trying to kill me when you could be killing those damn vampires instead?" he asked, rising to his feet and slotting another three shells in to his shotgun.

"They're not vampires. They're infected… they're…" she hesitated, struggling to find the right word to describe whatever they are, "… zombies," she concluded, sounding almost as condescending as her now Social Psychology professor - who upon reflection - bore an uncanny resemble to the infected.

"Whatever," he grunted, pumping the action, "Well kid, my name is Francis. What's yours?"

She swept her hair back and tied it with a ponytail using the hair tie that she had around her wrist for days, "Zoey." She replied and the blinked, "And don't call me kid."

"Whatever," he replied, "Kid." She scowled at him but the scowl turned to a cautious wariness as he heard footsteps outside. Unarmed, she did the smartest she could do, and slid behind Francis as he took aim at the shattered doorway. Seconds later, the smoking infected staggered in to the doorway with a hoarse shriek, until Francis provided the exclamation mark – twice, blowing the Infected half way across the street where it collided spine first with a parked car, twitched once and lay still.

Zoey almost lost her cool at that point. She'd seen the Infected, heard them shuffling around, almost as if they were mumbling to each other but she had never seen anything quite like _that_ before, "What, the hell was that?"

"Smoker," replied Francis as he reloaded yet again, "They shoot out some kinda tongue like thing and if you get caught in it, you're probably gonna be crushed to death.

"But if it kills you with its," she shuddered, "...tongue, why's it called a Smoker?"

"Ah hell kid, I don't know. I just kill the god damn things ok?" she glared at him and he gave her a sorta half smile back, a look that she would later realize he saved just for her, "anyway, I don't suppose you've got anything to eat around here do ya? I'm kinda hungry."

"Whatever you can find," she gestured round the store, "Dig in."

They sat in silence, as they both chewed their way through a strange meal of candy, junk food and beef jerky washed down with soda, "I hate soda," muttered Francis, "Don't suppose you got any beer around here?"

She shrugged, "Might be some in the back, but there's no power so its gonna be warm."

"I hate warm beer." His replied was muttered but filled with contempt for the topic at hand. She didn't reply as she squinted out the door towards the setting sun, and panicked.

"You blew the door off its hinges!" she almost shouted at him, her words practically running each other over as they streamed from her, "The door! We can't close it and with night coming…"

"I did what?" he asked, more than a little confused by her babbling until his eyes followed her finger, pointing to the ruined door, "Oh…." Was all he said?

"Oh? Oh? Oh! Is that all you can say!" she was almost half shrieking at him again, "It's not like I've got a gun to protect myself with!"

Francis's head was starting to hurt from her babbling and her screeching and he found himself thinking about the banshee of an ex girlfriend he'd left behind…. And then wondered whether or not she was still alive, but in all likelihood, she was right at home as one of the Infected. "Here!" he growled tossing her his handgun along with a half dozen magazines, "Now be quiet before you attract something with your shrieking!" She opened her mouth to retort but the look on his face made it clear that he was deadly serious. Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click, "Full magazine, one in the chamber," he commented as he picked up his shotgun. Zoey noted three things as the light splashed across her new companion.

The first was that the shotgun had a name done in a flowing calligraphic script, "Bertha." The second was that leather clad biker was not exactly unattractive. He was, kind of cute. The third was the growl. The fourth thing was that, he hadn't growled.

Something else had.

Having been so distracted, neither of them heard the creature slink in to the store on all fours, until it growled. They had barely a moment to react before its howling shriek shredded the silence as it leapt from the shadows. Halfway to his feet, Francis went down again, this time pinned by the savage lower body strength of his infected opponent. He jerked his head back to avoid the claws.

Zoey was crouched, petrified for a few moments as the somehow, Francis overpowered the creature and rolled on top for only a moment before it slammed him back to the floor, "Get it off me!" he shouted and that snapped her out of her stupor, as she brought the handgun to bear from a distance of two feet and pulled the trigger. It didn't even go "click." The Hunter looked up for a moment and stared at her, long enough for Francis to punch the creature in the head twice. It growled and returned to the task at hand as it swiped at Francis again, nearly piecing his left ear.

"Hey ugly!" she shouted. Where her first swing had missed its target, she did the Samurai of Ancient Japan proud as she brought the frying pan down, hard and fast, driven by fear, rage and adrenalin. The Special Infected were defiantly a mutation of the more common horde infected and were also smarter, mostly able to recognize the shape and sound of gunfire and to avoid it like the plague. The only sound was a whistling and it turned its eyeless face in the same direction. The Hunter had enough breath in its lungs to give a bark as its skull cracked and then pulped beneath the second and third blows from the angry teenager.

Zoey arms shook with the force of the blow and it took her a moment to steady herself, and stop the shaking so she could take a breath and help move the dead weight off Francis, "Glad you didn't take too long to swing that thing," he grunted, trying his hard to sound appreciative. It wasn't exactly something that he was very good at. Then again, as the last man standing from the Pennsylvania chapter of the Hell's Legion meant you weren't necessarily the nicest of people to begin with, "Now," he brushed himself off as nonchalantly as possible, "You wanna tell me why you decided to brain that thing instead of shooting the damn thing?" he raised an eyebrow as a few things clicked in his mind, "You don't actually know where the safety on that is do ya?" her nod was sheepish at best, "You don't actually know what a safety is."

She gave him a glare that came close to matching his own death stare, "I know what a safety is! I've never actually handled one of these before."

"You've never held a real gun before." He shook his head with a sigh, "You kids play to many video games, watch too many movies and are left without a handle on the real world." He spent perhaps ten minutes walking her through the basics of the 9mm handgun, "If you want to survive," he stared in to her eyes, "Learn, to pull, the trigger." She nodded and he did the same, "Good. Let's get moving. We don't have long till sundown."

The pair wandered the streets for several hours, cutting across streets, through alleyways, weaving in and out of buildings but Francis never backed down, preferring to kill rather than avoid, even with it would have been more prudent to do so. Their first gunfight had Francis screaming obscenities and heaping abuse on the infected while Zoey had shrieked she started shooting, "You call that a war cry? You sounded better with your frying pan." She did not make another sound. Truth was the sheer loudness of the gunfire had scared her for a moment. The she caught sight of the Infected she had gunned down. It wasn't quite cold blooded murder, but it was quite hot blooded either… more like lukewarm. She growled a good imitation of Francis and continued killing.

Two days since the pair had got together, two days of sleeping in shifts in semi secure locations. Perhaps a week, or maybe eight days since the initial infection, and the duo were still trying to make their way across the city to some kind of safety as they continued to rain bullets on any Infected that they encountered. They were firing in to yet another horde of rushing infected when the dull clattering roar of a submachine gun and an assault rifle joined their fire. It that came from behind an overturned car resting comfortably just across the street, "Who the fuck are you?" shouted Francis as he reloaded.

The street was a slaughterhouse, blood, brain matter, ichors and gore decorated the road, pavement and even the walls of surrounding buildings in nauseating patterns of chaos. "Considering we just saved your ass, the least you could is thank you," rasped the older bearded man in combat fatigues with salt and pepper hair.

Francis opened his mouth, only to have his jaws click shut from an elbow to the ribs, "You're right," said Zoey as she sized up the soldier, in comparison to the black man in a shirt and tie, "I'm Zoey. The big mouth…" Leveling his shotgun, he fired as the new arrivals brought their weapons to bear, in time to hear the sickening crunch of impact as a sole infected slumped to the ground. They relaxed slightly but their weapons stayed level as he meandered over to them, kicked over the creature and stomped his boot in to its face, "… is Francis," finished Zoey rather lamely.

The ebony skinned, half suited man just nodded, "I'm Louis," blinked as he stared in to the distance for a moment, "That's Bill," he gestured to the dog soldier snapping in a fresh magazine, "And that is a whole lot of trouble" he was pointing towards even the rushing Infected.

Bill eyed the new pair, and reached to his hip and then a webbing pocket, letting the rifle dangle from its sling for a moment, "Here," he passed his side arm to Zoey, "They're not the same caliber, so don't mix the magazines." She nodded her thanks and joined the impromptu firing line, somehow winding up with Louis on her left, and Bill on her right. Francis raised an eyebrow at where she had positioned herself, "I hate teenagers." He muttered.

"I hate leather wearing bikers," she snorted. Bill raised an eyebrow at the pair and then shot Louis a sidelong glance. Louis smirked in reply to Bill's question. Their twosome had just grown in to a foursome.

"Now that we're all full acquainted…" Bill raised his rifle, tucked it in against his shoulder, flicked the safety with his thumb and let his M16-A2 Carbine do the talking. The distance closed and Louis's submachine gun joined in, followed soon after by Francis shotgun and finally, Zoey's mismatched pistols.

They added more bodies to those already bullet ridden ones scattered along the street, as they stood their ground against the tidal wave of charging men women and children.

They killed, and killed, and killed.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 6**

**Down the Toilet and out the Sewer**

Francis kept his distance from the other three, wondering whether he should stick with them, or just go off and do his own thing before he got anymore attached to the brunette teenager. He didn't want to admit it that he was crashing hard for the kid. It hurt and he wouldn't lie about it to himself, even if he would lie about it to others, like Bill, or Louis - especially Louis. The former office manager had already had too much fun with it at his expense. He hated that… he wondered if he was starting to hate Louis, like he hated just about everything else.

They'd had it rough for the past day or so, Zoey was suddenly left wondering just what was wrong with Francis. The cocky arrogant loud mouth had become quiet and withdrawn, almost contemplative. It gave her the creeps. She shook out her hair and dried it off as best she could. Her hoodie was hanging off the back of her chair, hopefully just half damp, while they waited for Louis to finish up. He had strangely enough, volunteered to stand guard _with_ Francis… when that thought came to her, most of the pieces fell in to place… and she suddenly realized the connotation of her and Bill, in the bathroom, with the door closed…

Their conversation had been somewhat awkward for grand pa Bill, simply because he was trying to treat her as an adult, when she was still just a teenager. But how many teenagers had killed so many without feeling guilt or remorse to stay alive, only to be on the receiving end of THE talk, from a man old enough to be her grandfather who she'd only known for less than a month? It was sweet, in a way that he was trying to look out for her, even though she had seen and probably knew a lot more than he did about the subject.

While Louis stepped out, he, like the rest of them was relatively clean or as clean as they were going to get without a healthy coat of… puke… or whatever it was. She pulled her sweatshirt back on, leaving the hood down this time as they descended to the main floor of the warehouse. Their lights cut the darkness but as they moved forward, Bill had that feeling in his gut again, that something was not right, "Eyes and ears people!" he whispered.

Shelves reach the ceiling of the warehouse, loaded with wooden crates. Several dozen were scattered haphazardly, having been ripped open, with crowbars. Bill paused as he studied everything and Francis pulled up next to him, "Those foam inserts," he pointed, "boxes and that stuff its grease paper," there was a lilt of excitement in his voice, "You don't pack donuts that way. You ship guns."

Bill nodded, "Louis, Zoey: Stand guard. Francis," the biker blinked, "let's check these crates out."

They had found the mother lode. A quick glance through the shipping manifest on a clipboard left on a crate filled in the story: Hersch Shipping Company had been transporting a large order of military supplies from one end of the country to the other when the world went to hell. And the foursome was about to reap the reward, "Check this shit out!" said Francis, he way almost crowing with delight, "Guns! Body armor! Grenades! And lots and lots of ammo!"

That brought both of the guards over, as they ransacked the crates, pulling military issue packs, that still had the shiny new plastic and leather smell on them. Suffice to say that they were children in a candy store, with a couple of suitcases filled with pistols and money.

In five minutes, the four were for the first time since the Infection began, truly ready for the war with the unrelenting enemy. Francis had opted to keep Bertha II, stocking up on 12 gauge shot gun shells and a single Disraeli Arms Desert Eagle, chambered for the .50 Caliber Action Express – an elephant killer in a handgun. Louis the private betting between the other three had claimed, had either been an accountant or some kind of IT techno geek. They weren't even close as he hefted and discarded some of the heaviest in sniper hardware, ignoring the .50 caliber Barrett, in favor of a Marine Scout Sniper favorite: the SR 25 manufactured by the Knights Armament Company, "Just what did you do before the world went to hell Louis?" asked Bill.

"You mean before I got my Computer Science degree?" he wore a grin smile that was more than a little worrying, "Marine Corp, MOS 0331, before I got my MOS 0317."

"What the fuck does that mean?" asked Francis, strapping a KA-Bar to his hip.

"Shaddup. You idiot," growled Bill, "I thought there was something familiar about," Bill inhaled on his cigarette, "the way you move and shoot. You Scout Snipers never give it up do ya? " It took the practice hands of the veteran a moment before he'd managed to lock the soft bag of ammo in to place on the massive and heavy looking M249 Special Purpose Squad Automatic Weapon. Louis raised an eyebrow at Bill's choice of heavy hardware. Bill scratched his beard and dropped his cigarette, grinding it underfoot, "What can I say? Old habits," he racked the bolt, "die hard amongst 331-ers."

There was a hint of a smirk on Louis's face, "Once with the heavy weapon, always with the big gun." They turned and raised more than one eyebrow, "hey, uh, don't you think that's a bit much there Zoey?" she blushed for the barest fraction of an instant, and slotted the matched pair of Beretta M92-Fs in to the thigh holsters.

Grabbing another pair, she dropped them in to their shoulder holsters with a shrug, "What? Let's face it guys I just can't carry the same kind weapons. I… don't have the strength to carry and I might just get kicked over by the recoil." Although she was not the definition of petite, or even slight, she was slightly on the high side of average build.

"Nah girl," said Louis, "it ain't that you're sticking to your guns. It's the… other stuff."

Ever the pyrotechnical one, she had raided the crate of grenades, and had at least a half dozen strung from her combat webbing. Bill wisely decided to say nothing about the backpack she was carrying, which probably contained even more things to blow stuff up with. She grinned and managed to catch Francis's eye, "Betcha I can make something go bump and boom in to the night!" the moment the words left her mouth, she gulped, wishing she could take them back as Francis turned his attention to the far side of the warehouse.

Francis, was wearing his trademark, "You're going to regret that," smirk, "Hey Zoey, you might wanna try one of these," he scooped the submachine gun out of the crate, "I reckon even a kid like you can handle one!" She fumed, Louis smirked, Bill stifled a guffaw and Francis, and Francis continued to smirk as he started filling magazines for Zoey's submachine gun.

In an attempt to save themselves from her wrath, the other two joined Francis, trying their hardest not to laugh out loud at the awkwardness of the moment as Louis added, "Yep… Just like Counterstrike!" If looks could kill, Louis would have been dead several times over, as Francis shot Bill a look. The veteran could only shake his head. Francis was at least fifteen years younger, and if he didn't get it, how the heck would he?

"Guys," she asked, cautiously, "did any of you… feel that?" They froze and while they might not have felt it, they could hear something, loud. A stray bullet, standing on the edge of their gun crate turned table, toppled over and hit the floor with a metallic ping. Seconds later, several more followed suit. Around them, the shelves seemed to tremble, ever so slightly as if nervous or fearful.

"Is it, coming this way?" whispered Louis. There was another roar that seemed to fade in to the distance – at least they hoped it was going that way. If they strained their ears, perhaps they could have imagined the sound of gunfire. Hastily snatching the last few magazines, Zoey hefted the submachine gun experimentally. "Time to go!" she said and they took off across the warehouse, spilling out in to the alley beyond, not eager to wait around and find out if the Tank was coming in their direction.

The alley was narrow and the Tank sounded closer than before and that had them even edgier. Edgy enough for them to miss the warning signs and walk in to the ambush. There was a smothered cough and then the whip like tongue wrapped itself around Bill and dragged him back. Turning to his aid, Francis heard more the bone chilling screams as the twin Hunter's pounced from the roof overhead. Diving backwards, Zoey landed and slid along the rain slick alley, narrowly avoiding the first Hunter as it readied itself to pounce yet again. Louis, screamed.

Shoving the barrel of his shot gun through the chain links, he speared the Smoker through the eye, "Didn't anyone ever tell that this is a no smoking section?" growled Francis. A cloud of sickening smoke, spores and ash engulfed the two as they gasped for breath, caught up in the sickening cloud of that reeked of death, decay and worse as both men, dropped to their knees as the clawed their way out of the deathly cloud.

Lying on her back, Zoey brought her weapon to bear as the Hunter screeched and took to the air. Unaccustomed to the weapon, the recoil saw the weapon jerk and bounce, as it rose almost of its own volition, sticking a field of fire through the Hunter's flight path. Bullets tore up its stomach and chest as it slumped in midflight, plowing face first in to the wall before coming to a stop a top a rubbish pile. Louis however, had his hands full, struggled against the Hunter, its claws blocked by his rifle, even as it lunged forward, trying to chew on his face. Pulling herself upright, she dropped the submachine gun, letting it dangle from its sling as she drew one of her Berettas and fired. At slightly less than eight feet, it was still not an easy shot as the Hunter head jerked back and forth. Three shots later, Zoey was doing her best to shift the hundred plus pounds of dead weight of Louis as the other two struggled to catch their breath.

Looking Louis over, she poured the last of their disinfectant in to the gash on his arm, before wrapping a clean bandage over the wound, tying it tight in an attempt to bring the edges of the wound together. They didn't have a clean needle, let alone thread, to stitch up wounds, or even painkillers to dull the pain anymore. "Funny isn't it?" asked Louis, "How we all need professional medical help, and we're not going to get it when we get to Mercy Hospital?"

"Hey come on now," she chided him gently, "You better not give up Mr. Positive. Otherwise I'm going to be stuck with Grumpy and Bill," she paused for a somewhat poignant moment, "and if that happened, I'd probably wind up shooting both of 'em when they start on each other." The proof, as they say, is in the pudding, as Francis and Bill kept on eye out while insults flew back and forth, fast and furious. It was hard to tell with those just how serious the fights were. Half the time the odd couple seemed about ready to shoot each other and the other half ready to smack the seven hells out of each other. But when the chips were down, they fought like brothers that don't like each other but make a point to get along for the rest of the families sake.

Now that was a rather odd thought. She shook her head, dismissing that thought and pulled Louis back to his feet. Satisfied, they regrouped and moved on, following the alley in to another building, a water treatment plant explained Louis by the sound of the machinery. They had entered via the back door, and found it was a long dark tunnel that had the at best of illumination provided by a few scattered emergency lights, "Watch out for that steam pipe," cautioned Francis, leaning to the left to avoid the fine spray of super heated water.

"Man, I love steam," said Zoey, teasing the biker.

He paused, and seemed to be giving the opinion cum question some thought, "Yeah," he scratched his head, "Steam's alright… I guess."

They were moving down the flight of stairs when Louis heard the faint growl, "Zoey,' he said, "Hunter!" the descended the stairs, their shoes and boots echoing loudly on the metal stairs as they reached the bottom and rounded the corner as a shriek shattered the silence. The foursome scattered, Louis diving to the floor, Zoey diving left behind a septic tank, Francis back behind the stairs as Bill rolled backwards, up the stairs. The creature crashed face first in to the metal stairs with a startled yelp as the "odd couple" reduced the Hunter's face, neck and chest to freshly ground beef.

Shaking a little, Zoey reluctantly lead the way with her submachine gun. She'd never told anyone that she was actually claustrophobic, and the tight confines of the corridors, the faint glow of the red emergency lights that threw random shadows everywhere were creeping her out. She bit back a scream when a leather gloved hand gently gripped her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder and blinked in surprise at Francis.

"Claustrophobic?" he whispered. She didn't trust herself to speak and just nodded once. She blinked in surprise as he stepped forward, taking the lead. She almost objected but it was something about the way he did it. Gently, firmly but also slowly, slow enough for her to object and to continue to lead. Louis was wondering where Francis had learned such a long word, let alone how he could pronounce it, "Bill watch our back would ya? I got a funny feeling."

Bill nodded, almost approvingly but the gesture was lost on the biker with his back to him. The veteran turned did as he was asked as they moved down the center of the room, flanked by rows of massive septic tanks, all of them no doubt filled with waste in various stages of being treated and processed. A pair of common infected turned and growled as the humans passed them and were rewarded for their interference with a bullet apiece. At the far end of the room, a man hole had been conveniently left open, but it was more for the convenience of the sewer bound horde that reacted to the gunshots and began fighting amongst themselves in their eagerness to get up the ladder and come to grips with the fresh meat. "Guess they're going to be plenty of 'em down there," grunted Bill as his light illuminated the angry horde. Two quick bursts of his from his M249 helped dissuade those infected on the ladder for a moment, "Zoey, care to do the honors?"

She grinned. The first time they had seen that particular smile since she'd gone man versus tank and won. She licked her lips almost in anticipation of the fireworks, "How do you want it?" she said coyly, "Boys?" she dragged out the syllables of the word and got a rather entertaining result as Louis turned away with a cough and Bill choked on his every present cigarette.

Only Francis seemed somewhat immune as he leaned forward, and pointedly hoisted two grenades from her combat webbing. Leaning in close enough, "Any way you want to make things go bump…"She blushed furiously, and was suddenly grateful that there was so little light and a lot of shadows as he pulled the pins and dropped both pineapple shaped objects in to the sewer, "… and boom in the night. Frag out!" before grabbing two more from her belt, letting his fingers linger a little longer than necessary, smirking as the red in her cheeks intensified. The first pair went off within moments of each other before he soft lobbed one to either side of the ladder.

"Francis and Zoey, sitting in a sewer, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Louis shook his head and stepped forward, "Come on," he grinned at the pair, "Love birds" and dropped down in to the sewer. Louis wasn't a big fan of heights, nor was he of jumping down eight feet in to God only knows what that included the blood, brains and organs of several dozen infected. But he wasn't the one with the bad knee. That would be Bill who landed awkwardly on the soft, squishy ground with a barely disguised grunt of pain. For the umpteenth time in his life, he cursed the Vietcong under his breath.

"And I thought the subway smelled bad." Zoey grimaced.

Louis agreed. It was an odd mixture off dirty diapers and rotting fish and eggs, "Hey Francis, did you take your boots off?"

"Holy fuck! No!" replied Francis, shaking his head as he gave an ostentatious sniff, "Which one of you jackasses just beefed?" he gave Louis his patented number two irritated glare, "Louis?"

"Guy's this way! Let's go before there is another horde!" Zoey called, cutting them off before they could really get started. They followed her through the sewer as they rounded a corner and almost rammed in to her as she inched her way backwards. The creature had its back to them, but they could recognize the shower of white hair, the hunched over posture as its wails and sobs broke the silence: it was another in a string of near sarcastic ironies… the Witch was crying, beneath one of the few still working lights in the entire sewer, that also illuminated the painted words on the wall, pointing the right direction to Mercy Hospital.

"Well, fuck." That came from Francis, "I hate sewers." The way forward was through a small maintenance room, and the Witch had parked herself right in the doorway, Francis looked over at his three companions, and figured that out of all of them, he was in the best shape, and probably had the best gun for the job: He could pump out a literal wall of shrapnel if he just held down trigger. It would be all about getting close enough, "Guys," he whispered, "this will work. But, if it doesn't for any fucked up reason, do me a favor: Shoot me _before _you shoot my ex-girlfriend."

He walked, slow, steady even steps as he closed to within six feet of the Witch, and then carefully, dropped in to a crouch as he began to steadily inch his way closer to the still oblivious woman. Bill's winced as his cigarette flopped free and landed on his forearm. Louis and Zoey were equally amazed as he inched closer and closer, until he was perhaps two feet away from the oblivious creature. He adjusted his positioning and placement, the barrel just twelve inches away from the back of the rocking witch head. The three continued to watch as he seemed to slide forward, without a sound perhaps another two inches. It continued to rock back and forth, lost and drowned it its own world of loss and agony. Louis trembled and Zoey placed a hand on his arm to steady him, in case he gave the game away. Marine, Heavy Weapons operator, or sniper… there is no military training on the planet that can prepare you for this kind of shit. Of that, Bill was sure.

The Witch rocked back and forth, still crying her eyes out until the barrel of the shotgun, ever so gently, like the touch of a long lost lover, caressed a few strands of bleached, bone white hair. Francis could see that there were still spots of color in its hair. Either it had been a redhead in life, or it was blood. But the lightest of contact was enough for the Witch to tense up in mid rock. It gave a deep warning growl and seemed to spin its head round like something out of the exorcist. Unlike the movie, her forehead was pressed against the barrel of Bertha II, which had a loud, special message regarding an impending exorcism.

The blast rang out, deafeningly loud in the confines of the sewer as the Witch gave a terrifying howl of rage and anger, then, fell silent as a second cloud of buckshot, speed out of the barrel, and simply erased her head and face above the lower jam as she pitched upwards and then slumped over. Francis rose slowly, the whole process had taken perhaps a minute, but it left him shaking, the adrenalin bleed off, making him shake almost uncontrollably for a few moments as he looked over at Louis, "Hey Louis," he took a breath just to steady his voice, "I think I just earned the crown for that Witch!"

Louis knew this was one fight he didn't have a chance of winning and gave the title willing, 'Fine, fine" he bowed, mockingly, "I prostrate myself before you, o-mighty crowner of the Witch." There were smiles and chuckles all round as Francis tried to figure out what exactly the word "prostrate" meant as they let the painted signs on the walls of the sewer guide them ever closer to Mercy Hospital.

"If the sewers were always this empty," remarked Zoey, "We should have just stayed down here and avoided a lot of problems."

"I don't know," remarked Bill, "Lotsa tight corners… gunfire would be pretty damn loud and echo. And" he felt a knot in his gut tighten, "I wouldn't want to fight a tank down here." That brought them all up short for a moment. Louis actually stumbled at the thought. It took them another ten minutes before they finally found the ladder they were looking for when the scream freaked all four of them out. It was a Hunter's cry, echoing down the tunnel, seconds before a second erupted. The foursome formed back to back in a circle, scanned for the pouncing infected. The pair came barreling from around the far corner a near ballistic speeds, rolled across the ground and continually hacked and slashed at each other with their talons. "What the fuck?" muttered Francis as they leapt apart.

It was like watching the beginnings of a professional wrestling match as both fighters exploded out of their respective corners, shrieking a challenge to each other. The survivors could only watch in disbelief as they sent uneasy, confused glances at each other. They formed a loose firing line, keeping their weapons, lights and eyes trained on the furious brawlers

They snarled, screamed and yelped at each as the pair bounced off a wall and then crashed to the floor, skidding through the muck and crap. Incredibly neither let go of the other as they flipped back to their feet and bounced each other, spine first off the walls, leaving spider crack patterns and indentations in the concrete. Breaking apart, one injured Hunter backed up, coming directly at the foursome, ass first. Seconds later its adversary pounced in to view and then they pair were locked in a furious grapple, exchanging raking blows with their "hind" claws that had ripped through their shoes. One was covered in deep, penetrating gashes. The other had its arm at a clearly awkward, uncomfortable and broken angle. The closed and grappled again, finally the one with the broken forelimb was thrown off, and they began circling each other.

Both were covered in each other's and their own blood as the stagnant waste of the sewer got in to their wounds. Whether that would actually harm them or not was something that Zoey noted with a somewhat clinical detachment. Their chest were heaving, both were clearly in pain but neither one was ready to yield. Then again did the special infected understand the concept of self preservation? Francis was all in favor of just settling the fight with a cloud of buckshot when Bill gently put his hand on the barrel and pointed it to the floor, "Just wait. There's a good chance they'll finish each other off. We won't go deaf, or have to fight a horde down here."

Francis, grunted but kept his gun up. They all did, just in case either Hunter decided that any of them might make a better opponent. "The fuck's gotten in to them though? I've never seen the… specials… fight each other like this." Louis breathed from behind him, peering past Bill's elbow to see what was going on.

Zoey was still and silent, her hands clutched, white-knuckled on her gun as she stared. The lame hunter let out a small whimper along with its growl, its face torn open, along with wounds up and down its arms and legs. The second hunter launched himself forward too fast to be predicted and slammed in to the lame hunter like the fist of an angry god, smashing the creature down in to the murky water, with a sharp crack. The whimpers became a gurgled yelp as its throat was torn out. It twitched and jerked and then finally, went still, then limp and vanished in the shallow ocean of excrement.

The still living Hunter straightened slowly, arching his back and threw its head back in a howl of victory before turning its eyes on the four survivors. Its gaze swept over them and then came to rest of Louis for a moment. Suddenly it turned leapt away with a surprising ease despite its numerous wounds. Louis sagged in relief but Zoey's eyes were glued to the fallen Hunter, its neck nothing but ruined flesh and blood that diluted in the pool of dark brown and yellow water. With its dark eyes staring up at nothing, unblinking, "That, was really scary." She hadn't meant for her voice to sound so tiny when she spoke, and hated that it did. She wasn't some damsel in distress. This wasn't some movie. Why did she suddenly feel so helpless, like a little girl lost in the big, big world, "What the hell is going on?"

Bill's words chilled her straight through, more than any rain could, even more than howls of the horde, the shrieks of the Hunter or even the sobbing cries of the Witch. Two words and Bill darkened the atmosphere around them, oppressively so, "They're changing."

Finally, moving again they wandered around for a bit until finally, "This should bring us out right in front of the hospital." said Louis as he studied the crudely painted map and sign on the sewer wall, taking careful not to stand too close.

"Let's pray that there aren't a lot of people up here. I don't think I could survive another horde." Louis looked at Bill in shock then noticed the blood that was slowly seeping through his fatigues, and had already stained his fatigues. Bill shook his head, the ribs had been bothering him since the Smoker.

"We don't have a damn thing left between us. If we can't resupply in there," he pointed overhead, I'm not sure I'm gonna make it," he said the last quietly turned a sad face to Louis. He hesitated for a moment, "Louis," he coughed and grimaced, "My bones at this point, are killing me. If I go down, look after Zoey." He shook his head, cutting off the younger man's almost painfully obvious objection, "I don't have long left, a couple, maybe six months at the most," he tapped his cigarette, "Smoking kills." He gave off a dry sardonic laugh.

Louis studied the man before him and realized that he really was as old as he appeared to be. Most of the time, none of them noticed, simply because he continued to kick down doors and generally kick as much, if not more infected ass that all three of them put together, "So I go up first, and then you follow," said Louis. He wasn't making a suggestion either. They climbed and spilled out on to the street, right where Louis said they would come out.

The scattered vehicles, did nothing to hide the corpses of so many dead, and Zoey was the first to voice what they were thinking, "My God… what, what happened here?"

"Christ, Zoey," thought Francis, even though he knew he was being more than a touch uncharitable about it, "You know what happened here!" Bullet ridden bodies of infected, military and civilian littered the roads, the courtyard of the hospital, practically every horizontal surface.

The smells of blood, and offal mingled almost happily with the stenches of burnt flesh, cordite and gunpowder. There were too many bodies, and pieces to count. But the pattern to the bodies made clear what had happened to Bill who'd seen the aftermath of more than one ambush and Louis, who'd executed more than on ambush. The story was told in spent shell casings, craters and scorch marks, punctuated and paragraphed by the slain infected and specials

The defenders had originally had the infected in a somewhat unbalanced cross fire but the sheer weight of enemy numbers had forced them to retreat in to the narrow reception area, where they had used the width of the doorway as a choke point, establishing it as a kill box. Again the numerical superiority of the horde won against perhaps a dozen defenders. The last stand had taken place at the door to the safe room. The soldiers who had died, had defended their position until they had exhausted every bullet and then resorted to using a string of grenades as a final "fuck you" to the infected. Shrapnel was still embedded in just about every surface. Even the ceiling had not been spared and along with the walls looked like the heavily crated surface of an alien planet.

The area was chillingly quiet, and they did the only thing they could for those who were already dead and those who were perhaps not dead twice: A bullet to the head. They slipped behind the reception desk and in to the small safe room beyond. It had once been a staff room from the looks of it. And in one of the central ironies of their battle so far, it was a veritable weapons stockade, with guns of all makes and calibers lining the shelves and table, stacked neatly on the floor and against the wall. All the firepower in the world however was probably not going to be enough to stop the infection. It would take a cure to do that and in Mercy Hospital, the survivors would have to cure the infection, one bullet at a time. "I just hope," whispered Louis, "That the chopper's gonna be there."

The others silently agreed. They had enough ammo to keep pushing through the hospital, but after crawling through the sewer and up in to the toilet bowl of the infection, they were going to need supplies to redress wounds and counter more mundane infections. Sewage and open wounds are never a pleasant mix.

3


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 7**

**No Mercy**

The hospital's safe room had once been the staff room for the plethora of doctors and nurses at the hospital once consigned to 36-hour-on-36-hour-off shifts. The first thing they saw, penned on to the wall of the safe room in heavy marker: "Mercy Hospital is overrun!" The survivors who had come before the foursome had cleaned it out completely except for a cache of weapons. They ignored the graffiti on the wall that boasted a ridiculous kill count of 53,594, "Dead Rising" anybody?" suggested Zoey.

Louis chuckled at the obscure gaming reference, leaving the other two puzzled as they passed through the safe room and in to the building. The paused to steal whatever medical supplies they would need, and were more than a little greedy, taking more than they could use, killing the few infected that barred their way in the overrun building. They kept moving, sweeping through and clearing the male locker room at one end of the floor. They'd stolen blanket and pillows out of a supply cupboard. Perhaps they wouldn't have beds to sleep in, but at least they could get comfortable and really, rest. That and the plumbing was working, meaning flushing toilets and more importantly, hot showers.

They barricaded the door with two banks of lockers, setup a firing point, barricading beyond even a regular safe room door, more than likely a psychological response to not sleeping in a safe room for the first time in weeks. Zoey had showered first, "So chivalry's not dead?" she teased before vanishing behind the curtain. They took turns and nobody seemed to mind just how long they were spending under the water, trying to scrub off weeks of grime and blood.

Louis had rummaged shirtless through the cupboards and managed find spare sets of clean, though ill fitting hospital scrubs in varying shades of white, green and purple. He'd left the pink ones on the shelf. It was somewhat humorous, that the ones for the men were all a size too large, but that the ones closest to Zoey's size where a touch too small. Not that anyone cared to complain... they were all beyond shame now.

Zoey had piled their clothes and taken the time wash them out as best she could with the soap, disinfected and hot water. Semi clean was an improvement. Semi clean and still damp suited them all just fine. Their last attempt to clean their clothes had been less than successful. Lounging around in a hospital in nothing but scrubs, the two military men were lost in their thoughts. The Scout Sniper reminiscing about his vaccinations before deployment to the middle of a desert to fight a war he didn't understand, the former heavy machine gunner about the hell he'd seen in a jungle war and how it stacked up against the hell he was seeing now.

Bill however found memories hard to focus on as his ribs were giving him unbridled hell. He'd sagged against a wall after his shower. Every breath hurt and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, perhaps even let the darkness claim him for a while. But he couldn't, not now. They were so close. He would see his… team through. He had too. Zoey was still struggling to get the boomer's bodily fluid out of their clothes, and Francis, typically was already snoring, stretched out on the floor, pillow under his head and wrapped, almost cocooned in a blanket.

"What's wrong Bill?" Louis crouched next to the stretched out soldier, eyes wide with concern.

"Ribs, chest… and my damn trick knee." He managed to grind out from between clenched teeth. Without asking for permission, Louis lifted the green scrub shirt and inhaled a sharp breath. They were banged up, but Bill was the worst. Kicking as much infected ass as he did, it made a twisted kind of sense; he helped the man sit up and studied the full extent of his wounds. There were five jagged cuts along his back, sweeping down from below his left shoulder blade to where his kidney would be. Puncture wounds on his right shoulder the bled lightly. A multitude of scratches cuts bruises and lacerations of varying severity all over. Louis wondered if he, Francis or even Zoey were as bad as this… "Mother! Fucker!" Bill yelled as Louis gently prodded his ribs, waking Francis who had his shotgun leveled. The biker relaxed but raised an eyebrow asking what was going on.

"Fractured ribs," explained Louis.

"Just fix it," growled the veteran through clenched teeth as sweat dripped down his face.

"Lose the shirt. …" ordered Louis, "I'm no medic but I think I've had a couple of the same breaks." True enough, his were a few days old and didn't hurt or bother him much, so long as he had some painkillers hand to take the edge off.

"Shit." Francis whispered, "You're gonna be ok, old man. None of us is gonna let you die here." Francis said from where he was seated, and hesitated for a moment, "Louis, you… you gonna need help?"

"Lowest couple of ribs are fractured on the left," explained Louis before turning to Francis, "Taping them up is going to hurt - a lot." The biker nodded and grabbed hold of Bill's legs.

"Do it quick." he grunted, looking away as the pair assembled the necessary tools for the job, and got on with it. Conceivably, a lightning bolt would have hurt less – and would have been a lot quicker too. With the job done, Francis picked up Bertha II and stalked over to the door. Shoving the barrel though a slot, he fed the few infected pounding on their door a heavily leaded last meal.

Zoey rushed out of the bathroom, hair wet, her shirt hanging open with her weapons raised. She was quick enough to catch on to what was happening, and wise enough not to interfere, silently taking Bill's hand in a measure of support. Louis noticed the tape across her ribs, the black blue and yellow green bruises across her chest and shoulder, and down one arm. There was nothing he could say. Francis did his level best not to look at either of them.

Bill managed to grab hold of Louis's shoulder with a surprising amount of strength, "Do anything like that again and I assure you something, horrible will happen." he growled as sweat and tears of pain ran down his face, "Fer Christ's sake! I've been shot and that didn't hurt as much!"

"Easy Bill, I'm not infected. No need to kill me for what they did!" retorted Louis as secured the end of the tape with a fold over, "How's that?" He asked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Bill stood cautiously. He reached to pull his shirt down, and the movement didn't hurt that badly. Before, moving would have racked him with enough pain to make his toes curl.

"Yeah… that'll do. Thanks Louis." He mumbled, leaning over to grab his gun. Bill sorted they took turns dealing with their still open wounds, especially since they had been trampling through sewage for several hours. The filth was more than likely to cause some kind of infection. The multitude of scratches and lacerations, old and news were cleaned out with antiseptic and where necessary, properly stitched and redressed. Each of them had more than one wound that actually needed a reclose due to their one sided survival struggle.

Struggling slightly, and breathing heavily through the pain and discomfort, the veteran limped his way over to the door. It was more discomfort than actual pain now, when Francis stood, and barred his way, "Hell! No! Rest some first, old man, you two as well." The biker ignored the infected banging on the door for a moment, "Go." Francis barked with drill sergeant intensity. Bill reluctantly laid down, but found that he couldn't get his eyes to close, and it was the pain that was keeping him up, "If you can't sleep, get something to eat." He added, "And get me something too," as an afterthought, "Would ya?" It was the closest Francis could come to ever, saying please.

"How we for food?" There were plenty of chips and cookies and crackers scattered haphazardly in a corner of the safe room, probably pillaged for several vending machines. There were only had the few cans left from a store they'd raided almost a week ago. They grabbed a mix of things, sharing out two cans of spam between them as Louis refilled their canteens from the tap. The thought of the final push sobered him, as he studied his friends. Louis and Francis were trading insults about one thing or another and Zoey was just sitting in silence, no doubt lost in contemplation. "Quit teasing him, Louis." Bill grumbled to himself. Not too interested in conversation, he sat down carefully next to Zoey and began to eat in silence.

Dawn had sneaked the first rays of light in to the building several hours ago. Louis had been on watch since just before the sun began rising, and it was a little after ten in the morning now. He'd debated whether to wake the others, but decided against it. Let them all sleep and rest. God knows they needed it. "Constant Vigilance" muttered Louis, and snickered. Quoting "Harry Potter" during a zombie apocalypse was a sign that things couldn't get any more unreal. The Information Technology Systems Manager stood to stretch, having rigged up another three blinking light and noise making attractors for half of Zoey's grenades.

Louis managed to ignore the engine like rumble that was Francis snoring. He gave the biker a hard time, but then Zoey was curled up against him. So there was a measure of hope there, he supposed. He worked to distract himself and keep himself awake and alert. When dealing with electronics, especially sensitive ones so close to explosives, caution and concentration are crucial. The last thing he wanted to do was blow everyone else to heaven, and that was the best worst-case scenario.

His little innovation had saved them on more than one occasion and having more equalizers, rescue or not, would be handy, especially to clear the way to the chopper. He remembered the slavering tsunami of infected that had chased the chopper down the street only three or four days ago and shuddered. They had a long, long run through apartments, abandoned subways, and sewers and a hospital still stood in their way. Rescue was waiting for them on the roof top. The roar was not as distant as they could have liked. In fact, it sounded frighteningly close; Zoey shot up right, "Did that tank find us?" she blurted.

Francis could sleep through virtually anything but the word "tank" had snapped him upright like he'd just been stabbed in the ass – again – with penicillin loaded syringe, shotgun pointed at the barricaded door.

"We would have heard it or felt it by now," said Louis confident and very certain of the fact. Which he could be considering there was nothing that sounded quite like a tank standing or on the move towards you. It was easily to tell when a tank was closing: The entire world just shook.

Louis glanced at his watch. It was almost evening and he made a circling motion with his hand. Bill nodded, "Well since we're up, we're up. Let's get moving!" The soldier was back in fighting condition, which was about the best that could be said for all of them. Food, water, rest and everything didn't hurt quite so much. He only wished he was about twenty years younger…. But if wishes were horses, they would probably be knee deep in shit anyway.

"Time to get going," agreed Louis as he drained the bottle of water and tossed it aside. They raided the stash of supplies one last time, and dressed, in their semi dry but real clothing that offered better protection than surgical scrubs. They cleared the barricades to the door of their safe room, "Let's do this." Francis stated as he swung the door open and stepped out, firing in to the few lolling infected. By his side, Louis did the same to the rear. Bill waited until everyone else had come out of the safe room before moving forward himself, wincing a bit as the movements pulled at his bandages, but having lived through one war, he'd learned to block pain to keep going. Pain, was a good thing. It told you that you were still alive, and if you were alive and could feel it, you were strong enough to fight.

They advanced rapidly using their firepower, clearing every room and shutting doors to secure a line of retreat to their safe room, just in case. They'd survived this long by always having one available. "This doesn't look like any hospital I've ever been in," remarked Louis, gunning down an infected doctor and nurse. Some of the rooms were empty, but bloody. The blood was everywhere; walls, floor, and even the ceiling.

Bill followed the signs and they hooked right, down a shadow filled corridor, following the directions for the lift. The blood had besmirched more than just paint and wallpaper, having marred the prominent gold lettering that proclaimed "Mercy Hospital," that eerily glowed with its own internal light. This was no hospital. This was a cross between a tomb, a morgue and an abattoir as they killed their way to the elevator lobby, only to find that the elevators were out of order due to a lack of electricity, "There's stairs back the other way," muttered Bill.

"No sense in standing around here!" agreed Francis, leading the way to the stairs when the sound of breaking glass and pounding feet came from behind them. "Horde incoming!" shouted Francis, "Fire escape! Get up those stairs!" he barked. Bill and Louis ran ahead, killing the oncoming infected with ridiculous ease. Firing as he walked backwards up the stairs, Zoey laid down a barrage of her own as he dropped the shotgun, pulled a Molotov, shook lit and threw the fire bottle on to the bottom few stairs. Fire blossomed and began to spread, going back out the way they'd come, as a small scale explosion rocked the doorway, obliterating the doorway, as the fire spread along the bottom most step. He sauntered, cocky and confident towards Zoey, crouched on the top step waiting for him, "Fire escape. Get it?" he drawled.

Zoey just shook her head, 'Francis. That was terrible…" Francis had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed; "Now that's funny!" giggled Zoey, "You embarrassed!" Now the biker was a cross between embarrassed and irritated, which she found infinitely more amusing as she bit her lip to keep her laughter from overwhelming her.

One flight of stairs ahead, the two men had encountered an impromptu barricade of furniture comprised of the heavy desks favored by paper pushing bureaucrats. The two men were making an argument for human survival, "This should clear out the whole floor!" remarked Louis. Bill grunted in reply busy keeping the recoil heavy machine gun on target. The impromptu barricade was going to force them to cut through was a sign said was the hotel cafeteria.

The second floor had once been a cafeteria, the windows were crudely barricaded and what furniture that hadn't been broken down for barricading had been smashed to kindling by something big and angry. But that thing itself was not in sight, though evidence of its passage was chunky, and splattered across the walls. Large pools of dried blood marked clearly where more than one person had met their demise. "Let's keep moving." Louis brushed by going in to a huge rotunda like room, on their toes at the very loud growling that echoed out of the shadows.

"You know, I hate hospitals, and doctors and lawyers and cops…" grumbled Francis,

"I know I've asked you this question before Francis, but is there anything you don't hate?" asked Bill as he checked the door to the kitchen.

"I don't hate vests." He replied, shinning a pool of light out across the ruined cafeteria.

"Glad to see you don't hate everything on principle Francis," said Zoey with a smirk.

The biker gave a gruff chuckle, "Keep asking darlin' and maybe, someday, I'll tell you about all the things that I do like."

"That growling's a Hunters'," interrupted Louis as he led them carefully forward. The floor was empty just as he predicted, its former occupants scattered all over the stairs in various stages of dismemberment. They were half way up to the fourth floor; Louis had wandered perhaps ten steps ahead to the next stairwell when the growling became a very angry roar. Louis reappeared on the run, "Tank! Tank! Tank!" he screamed.

Louis had the right idea as they spilled back the way they'd come, in to the cafeteria. They nearly fell down the stairs in shock at the pair of hunter's crouched at the bottom of the stairs. The six pairs of eyes all widened in surprise for a moment, and the Hunters simply were not on the fast draw, obliterated with a double blast of buckshot. At least down here they had the room to hopefully out maneuver the building bouncing behemoth.

Francis pulled his last Molotov from his pack with some difficulty as the building shook and rattled to the tank's rock and roll beat. His lighter slipped from his fingers and he cursed, reaching out to Bill and yanking his ever present, ever burning cigarette from between his lips to light the sodden rag fuse, "Molotov out!"

Taking up flanking positions, on the door way, they only had to wait a few moments for the shaking to reach a bone rattling crescendo as the tank pulverized the door and walked right in to the flames. Whatever it was that made the infected flammable, it applied to tanks as well. It screamed in pain. Instead of following the corridor to the stairs, it simply leapt the ten feet down to engage the foursome at its preferred combat range.

"Move!" screamed Louis. Zoey ducked as the Tank lashed out with a burning fist. Scrambling for footing she rolled along the ground, through a pool of blood without a second though as a fist cratered the ground where she had been moments before.

"Zoey!" Francis yelled as he held the trigger down, emptying his shotgun in a desperate attempt to distract or even draw its attention. If this was the world's greatest bar fight, Francis was determined to win it as he leapt clear of a double handed axe like blow as he dodged back out of range, slamming shells in to Bertha II. Bill had gained a little distance, unfolded the bipod legs on his M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, setup on the cafeteria's only intact table, and held down the trigger, sending 5.56 mm rounds in to the chest, flank, neck and back of the ever moving, ever flailing creature. The Tank however, just continued to move closer to a still sprawled Zoey, rolling desperately to avoid the powerful floor shattering blows.

Snipers, in particular those that have earned the right to bear the mark of the Marine Scout Sniper, live by the motto, "one shot, one kill." The trio of shots rang out, hard and fast and smashed in to the face, head and neck of the massive beast, rocking the creature for a moment, stunned in to inaction for a moment. Still rolling across the bloody floor of the cafeteria, she spotted an exploitable weakness on the burning behemoth, "Left knee!" she screamed, rolling across the floor, bringing the short barreled submachine gun up, her finger tightened on the trigger as she kept the weapon under control and on target.

The relationship that the four shared was one originally founded on an awkward meeting at a crossroads slaughter. But that was all if took for friendship and then bonds of fellowship meant trusting blind calls to each other that seemed to make no sense at all. Francis darted in, unleashing buckshot to distract it as he hurled insults as well, allowing Bill clear shots at the brute's flank and arm, cleaving off several pounds of muscle, to no real effect. Louis however had the perfect weapon for such precision shooting. The range was far too close for the long barreled sniper rifle. He tore the scope from its picatinny rail, flipping up the almost antiquated back up iron sights, "Just like the minutemen of old," muttered Louis, waiting for the opportune moment. "From the halls of Montezuma," he half sang, half whispered, "To the shores of Tripoli…" the tank roared, tearing a chunk of concrete from a wall to hurl at Francis, standing stock still for just a moment, "We will fight," his finger broke the trigger cleanly at about five pounds of pressure, "Our country's battles," and again, "In the air," and again, "On land," and again, "And sea!"

Six bullets in almost as many seconds punched through the target limb, shearing off muscle above and below the joint, and the final two shots struck bone, accompanied by a massive crunching cracking as the knee joint disassembled itself and the creature tipped over backwards, unbalanced, its projectile landing heavily on its chest.

The building trembled as the beast gave a roar of frustration, followed by a wet crunch as it was stapled to the floor, through the chest by its own projectile. Incredibly, the beast continued to struggle as flames continued to scour its flesh. The smell of death, and burning filled the air, the thick, oily smoke settling in the back of their throats. It was worse than standing in a Smoker's death cloud. Finally, Francis lined up the shot, and took in, spraying tank brain matter, everywhere, "Not much to look at," he grunted, "Once you wipe 'em off your boot!"

In under a minute they had exhausted themselves but the tank busters were unharmed, and took the time to take a drink from their canteens, as Francis rifled the shelves and cupboards in the cafeteria, "There's got to be something to eat in here," muttered the biker as he searched the kitchen cupboards.

"How can you eat? After all that just happened?" panted Zoey, even as she took another throat bobbing swallow from her canteen.

"I can always eat," replied the biker confidently, "It's just all they've got is health food crap. Why is there no beer or candy? I hate health food." There was a trickle of exhausted laughter. "Can we get moving before I get pissed off and wring your damn necks?" complained Francis. First Zoey makes fun of him, and then he can't even find a decent snack…

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." Bill responded smirking as Francis's face contorted into a semblance of a scowl, only because Zoey was biting her lower lip. A sure sign that she was trying her damnedest not to laugh, even if he wished she would. He liked the happy, light hearted sound. But then again, there wasn't much to laugh at these days.

They rejoined the stairs, just above the stacked desk barricade that had barred their passage earlier, only to find that the fourth floor infested. The floor had been a ward and every room seemed to be filled with a "mini-horde" of infected that included doctors, nurse and former patients, "Let's be careful," muttered Bill, as they made a steady forward advance. They continued into the reception area of the ward, gunning down the infected with snap shots and precise bursts. There was no other way to go but forward when a stream of putrid, sickly green vomit flew from around the corner and would have coated them if they had been half a step quicker on the move.

"Boomer!" The biker shouted, diving forward to body slam the bloated infected back around the corner before poking his .50 caliber hand cannon round the corner, lined up his shot and planted one bullet, right between the eyes. Too fat and heavy to catch itself as it stumbled, the well aimed shot meant the creature stayed intact, even as it landed on its fat ass and rolled on to its back without popping the creature like water balloon, as a shotgun's buckshot would have. "Clean kill," thought Francis, "Now do we go around or past the fat bastard?" he asked.

"This part of the building still has power," nodded Louis, "The signs say there's a lift that way," he pointed past the corpse, "and if there's power, the elevator might still work, and we should be able to get to the roof." His voice echoed curiously off the bare hallway walls, "But Francis is right, no hordes, nothing. It's too quiet in here…"

"For once, I agree with both of ya," said the Veteran, "I've got a bad feeling about this…"

"Oh yes," said Francis, taking a mocking professor tone, "I'm sure the infected are not going to take advantage of this prime opportunity to finish us off," snorted Francis, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Bill let out a burst of laughter. The smell of death and decay had saturated the, floor, walls and probably the very stone of the building. There was more blood, more mangled remains, and more than one room was marred by biohazard quarantine signs and police tape. "This certainly doesn't smell like a hospital." Louis' voice was soft, Bill glancing over his shoulder with a shrug at the younger man.

"I've smelled worse…" replied the old man. He probably had.

They rounded the corner into the ICU, the smell of death and decay even worse here than the other areas. There was far more blood, and to their surprise, police tape covering many of the doors. Some of the rooms, the ones that were used for the worst, most contagious cases of disease had the yellow biohazard sign glaring from their still intact windows, the infected that were trapped inside throwing themselves at the glass as the survivors passed.

Zoey paused, staring in to one room, it was filled with infected doctors and nurses, but he was lying on his face, blood around his mouth. Zoey wondered whether he was among the first infected, before anyone had a clue, what this was, allowing it to spread throughout Mercy Hospital and then the rest of Fairfield? She shook her head. That made no sense, considering that the infection was more widespread that just this one city. Bill paused next to her, and studied the same scene she had been, and came to a conclusion of his own, "Something big happened here." He was eying the room, guarded by quarantine tape and biohazard signs as smoke from his fresh cigarette curling towards the ceiling. Louis noted that there was a cigarette behind Bill's ear. Where did he hide all those cigarettes?

"No shit." Francis replied with a grunt, he had been studying the x rays still hanging from the viewer, wondering which part of the human body had something that long. It looked like an eighteen inch long neck. He added an extra shell to Bertha, "Of course, all the cops did was put up tape when people started tearing at each other and eating each other. I hate cops." The biker wandered a little farther down and called back, "There's a working elevator!"

Bill's head whipped up and he stared at the best thing invented since the weapon in his hands. They moved forward, still cautious but faster as they gunned down the infected that lunged out from the side rooms and shut whatever doors they could to hinder the progress of anything hoping to follow them, whether they knew about it or not. With the elevator at the end of essentially a long corridor, they covered Louis as he inspected the controls, "It isn't a computer, but I think, with the power still running, it should work," his finger was poised over the button when he hesitated, "You sure about this guys? Cause this is probably going to bring a horde or worse down on our…"

"Press the damn button." Bill growled, "I'm not getting any younger and I'm not climbing thirty something flights of god damn stairs to reach the evac!"

"We'll be ready for whatever comes our way. Besides," Francis gestured, "You've got three pipe bombs, and Zoey's got several tons of stuff to blow shit up with!" Bill mashed the button. There was silence for a moment, and Bill wondered if he would be climbing thirty some flights of stairs when an ominous creaking and groaning filled their ears. There was a screech of metal on metal, "That's going to bring a horde," muttered the leather clad biker. The pounding began as the infected smashed their way through windows and doors to get at the foursome clustered around the doors to the elevator that had to descend twenty-six floors to reach them, "I hate elevators," muttered Francis.

"Would you prefer to take the stairs?" snapped Bill as he took careful aim down the length of the corridor, letting them close as Louis picked off those still farther out. The horde poured around the corner, shoulder to shoulder. They proceeded to thin out their numbers as the special infected made their presence known. The deadly gurgle of a Boomer echoed, followed shortly by a Hunter's screech and a Smoker's cough.

The machine gun roared like a buzz saw and Francis had to yell, "I said I hate 'em. Not that I'd neva use one!" Bills retort and laughter was lost as a grenade hurled by Zoey filled the air with shrapnel. Cracks spider webbed out the wall to their right, "Three o'clock! Wall's gonna give!" they clustered up, pressing their backs against the opposing wall as a Hunter slammed through slapping Francis to the floor and staggering the rest. "Damnit!" Louis cried. The whole wall on their right had collapsed, more zombies pouring in, a Boomer among them.

Louis shot a glance over his shoulder at the glowing digital display, just in time to see it click from 21 to 20, "Don't shoot in there!" Bill yelled, frantically trying to reload while the infected swarmed over to him. He yelled as their fists beat down, and screamed when their blows found his battered ribs, sending lightning tendrils of pain up his side. Frag! Frag! Frag!" screamed Louis. The blasts ripped the infected apart buying them a precious few seconds to reload and gun the regrouping horde with a long clattering burst that also took the Hunter pinning Francis apart.

There was a scream from somewhere behind them and incredibly the wall to their back collapsed as well. Zoey fired, spraying bullets through the new opening in the wall. There was a straggled choking gasp and then a "puff!" like a pair of pillows being slapped together. So long as the wall held up they would be fine, and the lift was on the fifteenth floor.

They did not have the bullets or explosives to survive being surrounded by yet another horde. "I hate elevators!" growled Francis yet again as he slapped another ten shells in to Bertha II, and then slapped the lift's call button for good measure.

"Nice way of stating the absolutely obvious!" yelled Zoey as she hurled two grenades through the small hole that had appeared in the wall to their back, "Frag out!" there was a dull crack and boom, the wall thick enough to prevent the shrapnel from shredding its way through to them. Desperate for an equalizer, Zoey sighted several of them lying alongside the many overturned gurneys scattered along the corridor, "Louis! Oxygen tanks!"

The SR-25, manufactured by Knight's Armament Company fired the standard 7.62mm NATO round but it was clearly not the most appropriate round to scythe through the press of bodies and then hit a small target, even at distances of less than thirty meters, "Plough the road!" barked Louis

Bill saw the number 10 flash on the elevator's digital display. They were almost there, and it was that classic in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound moment, "Covering fire!" yelled the marine and let his M249 SAW do what a sniper rifle can't. He held down the trigger and weaved the weapon left and right till the war machine went "click!" Louis sighted in on his target, half way down the corridor, close to the impromptu barricade slash firing point they clambered over just minutes before. Three shots rang out, two infected fell and then explosions lit up the corridor, fire spreading along the walls as shrapnel ploughed through fresh and dry wall construction, gouging a spectacular looking crater in to the floor.

The elevator dinged and they withdrew in to its relative safety as another wave of screaming infected rounded the far corner, and the last wall finally crumbled. Bill studied the controls for a moment and slapped the switch for the 28th floor as the others kept the infected at bay with concentrated fire, turning the corridor in to a kill zone as the doors began to close, and the last infected fell "Looks like we're going to have to take the stairs up the last coupla…" There was a cough and a shrieked hiss, moments before a tongue wrapped itself around Zoey and yanked her towards the door of the elevator.

"God damn Smoker!" shouted Bill, "You're going to have to use that tongue of yours to pull my foot outta your ass!" Incredibly, Zoey somehow managed to slide or twist her way out free of the tongue twister and followed that impressive feat with a few choice expletives and half a clip from her MP-5 that blew the Smoker's head off. Finally, the doors closed, the machine gave a far too cheerful chime and began to grind its way up. "You guys alright?" asked Bill, as he pulled open his medical kit. Louis had a bottle of water in his hand and it along with a bottle of pain pills made its way round.

"I'm not," coughed Zoey. Louis studied the controls and slapped one, halting the elevator as Bill dropped down next to teenager, clearing waiting for something, "Head, ribs, ankle." She answered. They passed her several painkillers and water before rolling up her pant leg to study the massive inflamed and clearly very tender ankle. "I can wrap this up, immobilize as best I can, then you should be able to… limp on it." He set to work with practice borne of the jungles of Vietnam. "I can't do much for yer head, but you're gonna have to take off the hoodie, and roll up your shirt if you want me ta have a look at those ribs."

She did just that, to the surprise of all three men in the lift with her. Francis and Louis were quick to look away, worried that Zoey or Bill would pummel them… probably both. Bill however was focused on tightening the tape on Zoey's ribs, "I can't get over it, you know?" she winced, "How fast they are… I mean, it's just not possible, not fair." She gasped as he released and tightened the tape bands, "I'm calling zombie bullshit on that one!"

Bill looked up from his work for a moment, a smile on his face, "You call this a zombie apocalypse? This ain't nothing compared to the zombie attacks of 1954!" There was a short moment of silent disbelief. Francis was convinced that Grandpa Bill was going senile. Louis muttered something about a concussion and Zoey just sat there, half undressed with her mouth hanging open. The grizzled veteran broke in to a grin, "… I'm just horse shitting ya!"

There was a groan from Zoey, "…and I thought Francis's fire escape pun was bad…." She thought. Done bandaging her wounds, the men checked each other over for a moment, and then slapped the "hold" button to get the lift moving up again, "You might want to put your hoodie back on darling," remarked Francis as the lift came to a halt on the 28th floor of the hospital. They were all silent for a moment, none of them moved. The only sounds were mechanical ones, from the elevator and their labored breathing. The elevator doors had either been blown off or possibly torn off.

The survivors crept out, weapons ready, the half finished floor they now stood on allowing them to see most of the infected that lurked there. They filed out, and spread out, a thin firing line to cover too much open space. It was suddenly clear why the elevator only came up to this floor: The top two levels were under construction when the infection hit. The survivors kept their weapons ready as more than one of the infected spotted them

"Why couldn't we see this from outside?" asked Francis," I mean this whole place isn't even complete!" As they walked, flashes of lightning and roaring thunder came from all around them. The storm must have started while they were somewhere inside the hospital and they never heard it. The lightning illuminated shapes that were otherwise invisible in the pouring rain and enveloping darkness, offering them an easier time with the infected than they might have had on the ground.

"We've not been able to see it because this is on the north side of the building," said Louis, "and we've only come in from the east mostly… took the south entrance in to the hospital. I guess, that's why the lift only goes this high… the construction…" Everything was half built at best. The steel skeleton of the building was visible practically everywhere, with wooden boards to hold things in place. Through the unfinished walls they could seen construction machinery, including a portable generator and a forklift just haphazardly parked. Tools and materials were scattered everywhere. It was as if the construction crew just dropped everything and ran… which upon a moment's reflection seemed about right.

"Hey, Francis, if I ever turn, can you shoot me?" asked Bill

The biker almost missed a step and stumbled at the question, one that was very serious and very personal. Francis was wondering what the right answer to that question was. He didn't want to think about even the possibility that he would have to, do, such a thing, especially to Bill, "What if your beard turns, can I shoot that?" he had something of a ghost of a smile, trying to make light of what was ultimately a deadly serious question. He didn't necessary like Bill, but he didn't hate him either.

"Speak up Francis. Your voice is all muffled from having your head being so damn far up your ass!" growled Bill in irritation. He turned to his friends, "Looks like we're going to have to find our own way up to the roof from here." They were barely twenty feet from the doors of the elevator when the floor began to rumble. The thunder outside had nothing to do with it as they glanced back at the elevator, and then at their guns.

"Aw for Christ sake," moaned Zoey, "Come on!"

"How we set for ammo?" barked Bill, "and explosives? We ain't come this damn far to die now!" Between sixty or seventy shot gun shells, about 50 rounds Louis's SR-25, one and a half magazines for Bill's M249, three clips for Zoey's MP-5 and a half dozen grenades and a single Molotov.

From the way everything shook, it was clear that the tank was climbing up. They could hear the crunch as it gouged hand and foot holds in to the sides of the elevator shaft, clawing its way to them. Bill darted back in to the elevator, slapping the button for the fourth floor, just to place a moving obstacle in the tank's path, and hopefully slow it down, buy them time, a few seconds to think.

The shaking just grow worse, and the tank roared its displeasure, followed moments later by the sound of metal, screaming as it was abused and the creaking as clearly, the mechanism failed under the tank's mass, the emergency brakes clamping the car in place. The cables went taut with strain, as inside the car, the tank began pounding, trying to force its way through. Nobody had yet to come up with any ideas, "Just shot the damn thing!" yelled Francis as he took aim down the shaft and unleashed a twin blast, that only perforated the roof of the elevator car but in all likelihood, did no damage to the beast.

Bill grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and adjusted his aim, "Bring it down! Bring the whole fucking thing down!" they targeted the emergency brake locks they could see, nearly deafening themselves as the shots reverberated and echoed in the confines of the shaft, only made even more problematic by the roar of tank, that seemed to know exactly what they were trying to do.

Louis looked up, and braced the rifle against his shoulder, dropped to one knee and fired up. A whip cracked and the high tension steel cables were blasted loose. Below them, it had already punched two massive holes in the roof of the car. Zoey's eyes widened in realization: without walls, if the tank made it up here, it could just punch them straight out in to open space, where they would have a thirty story plummet to death! She leaned and grabbed the Molotov from Francis, "Hey! You've got enough things to blow stuff up with!"

"I know!" she snapped back. Looking around, she grabbed a length of copper cable and strung her grenades along in, coiled the whole package around the Molotov, lit the fuse on the cocktail and hurled the entire package down the shaft. Her aim was dead on, sending the package through the opening where the sound of shattering glass was lost. She'd judged the distance perfectly, as she was left holding a length of copper wire with six grenade pins attached to it, "Frags out!" she screamed.

It didn't work quite the way she had planned. In fact, it barely worked at all. The grenades blew the top off the car, and they barely jerked back, clear of the doorway as a tongue of flame and metal shards peppered the walls and ceiling overhead. The tank was charred and blackened, with multiple shards of shrapnel sticking out from all over its body, giving it a porcupine like appearance. The tank stared up at them with its beady eyes and roared as it punched one fist in to the concrete wall, and began to climb, hand over hand like a monkey.

Lightning flashed in the sky and illuminated the rest of the floor, when the vehicle caught Francis's eye. It was crazy, it was desperate. And it just might work, "Keep the bastard busy!" Louis's response was to take aim and blow one of the massive fingers off at the base. And the tank let go in surprise to land back first in the still burning, roofless car. The trouble with tanks is that they are as stubborn as all hell, and a little fire, shrapnel, a hundred bullets and a missing finger were only making it more determined to kill someone. It pulled itself upright, sinking its hand in to the hole in the wall and let out a roar like an earthquake, determined to let the survivors know just how angry it was.

"Clear! Clear!" screamed Francis over the snap crack of thunder and the roar of the engine. Zoey, Louis and Bill could only stare. The biker was in fact, comfortable driving anything that had an engine. He just loved Harley Davidson Motorcycles, and hated every vehicle with more than two wheels with or without an engine. He waited, knowing that he had only one shot. The red and black charred hand grasped the edge and it pulled itself up with another roar. The biker lowered the blades of the forklift, and wedged the brick on to the gas pedal. Both hands on the ledge, the tank struggled to bring a leg up. Francis was already flying off the vehicle when his foot left the brake pedal.

It was surreal, though Zoey, but upon reflection, she would later realize that just about everything over the past month had been more than a little surreal. The tank seemed to realize that it would not be able to stop the Komatsu forklift and attempted to drop back in the elevator shaft. That was a sign of chilling intelligence on the part of the infected, but not much of one: Now trapped inside the shaft, and the elevator car, it had nowhere to go as the vehicle grabbed air for a moment, and the crashed down atop the creature with a sickening crunch of bone, the scream of metal and the howl of the tank that had the hospital shaking, as if it were having a seizure. A guttural roar erupted, this one tinged with more frustration than anger, and faded away.

Suddenly, there was nothing. Silence.

No breathing, no grunting, no growling. Just blissful silence as they collected themselves and threaded their way across the floor, mindful of the open edge, and the slippery, unfinished dark grey concrete floor. The few infected they encountered were those too stupid to have fled when they heard the tank. Or perhaps they were smarter than the rest? The only way to go had been a thirty-story plummet to the pavement.

They staggered in to the safe room, and simply collapsed, pausing only long enough to slam the steel door behind them. Francis's eyes flicked over to Zoey worriedly. She was breathing funny and her eyes were closed tight. No doubt she was in pain. No doubt there was nothing he could do about the pain as he stood, wearily and flopped down beside her, "You ok?" she was shaking, and Francis did the only thing he could think of: He just pulled her close and held her, waiting for the shakes to stop. A part of Francis was hoping that the shaking wouldn't stop, because he'd have to let go. Another part of him hoped that even after the shaking stopped, he wouldn't have to let go.

Louis actually smiled at the pair, "I'll take first watch."

Bill shook his head with a frown, "Grab whatever rest you can. We make the final push tonight," he glanced at his watch, "in about two, maybe three hours." He overrode their protests, "Think about it people! We've seen two tanks in less than two hours! The infected probably got the hell outta dodge when those tanks showed up. So we should get gone too!" Before a horde showed up, it made sense.

An hour later, Francis's eyes slid open. Louis was stretched out, asleep and facing the door, as Bill stood watch. He cautiously slid closer to Zoey, carefully adjusting the red hooded jacket she'd been using as a blanket, put an arm across her waist, and closed his eyes, almost willing himself to go back to sleep.

Francis had been cursed by his parents when they named him "Francis." His childhood had been one of mockery and ridicule. That had made him a hard man, but a self reliant one, and most people found him to be cold and impersonal. Just as he was about to truly fall asleep, he felt Zoey shift, and make herself more comfortable, snuggling up against him.

For the moment, everything was wrong with the world at large, but things were just fine on the twenty-eighth floor of Mercy Hospital in Fairfield, Pennsylvania.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 8**

**Escape**

Between the four of them, they managed a combined total of six hours of very good sleep. They had been living off junk food, sugar, caffeine and adrenalin and getting very little sleep for so long, it was all second nature to them. They fell asleep the moment they put their heads down, woke up the moment they had to. They carried the essentials, a few small personal effects and nothing else. "Pack it tight and cinch it down. If it doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, you won't get killed for it." Harsh words from the veteran that was nothing but the truth.

The condition of the safe room made it clear that this evacuation route had been open for quite some time. The warehouse may have been a treasure trove, and this was just the same. Francis, unwillingly, relegated Bertha to a more "supporting" role, slung across his back as he picked his way through the selection of assault rifles and submachine guns. Truth was, he hated most types of guns except for shotguns, and even then, he still preferred Bertha, to Bertha II. But the biker had acknowledged the need for something with a little more range, that could truly "reach out and touch the infected," as Louis had so aptly put it.

The biker had finally settled on a potent compromise: The MasterKey. Originally, the lead soldier in any squad was forced to carry; in additional to all the other equipment they were issued with, a shotgun to breach door hinges and locks. As the point man, this meant he was vulnerable for the few seconds it took to change weapons. The MasterKey combined the M16A4 assault rifle with an XM -26 Light Weight Shotgun mounted below the primary barrel, using the primary magazine to form the grip of the five round shotgun system. Francis, did not seem to hate it, or dislike it too much, having spent a few minutes with Louis's Swiss Army Knife temporarily purloined from Louis.

"You'd think there'd be a radio in here," remarked Bill, "To call that chopper…."

"It's probably on the roof somewhere, don't see why you'd want to have that whole fucking horde waitin' for ya." said Francis. Bill blinked. Considering the massive horde that seemed to follow the helicopter everywhere it went. "Feel any better?" asked Francis, carefully putting a hand on her shoulder.

She stretched and rocked lightly on her feet biting off a grunt of pain. He took her hand in his, and met his gaze, filled with concern, she flashed him a smile, "Ankle hurts… everything else just aches." He still hasn't let go of her hand.

"That's good, right?" he smirked and she wasn't sure whether or not to mention it, "Stay close out there."

"Yes," she replied, awkwardly, "Uh… Francis, can you let go now?" there was the faintest rosy tinge to her cheeks, and she could see it clearly in her reflection in his eyes. He dropped her hands like he'd been scalded and turned away. She was convinced that there were traces of a blush on his face, and Bill's gruff sort of laugh, and Louis's wide grin seemed to confirm her suspicions, that Francis was sweet on her –whether that was a good thing or not she still wasn't sure – but at least the bad ass biker, or rather, the real person beneath that persona, had an emotional range broader than the common tea spoon.

"Choke on your cigarette there bill?" asked Francis. Louis's smile vanished and Bill stopped laughing. Francis didn't need to look to feel the death stare he was getting from Louis standing at the door, "What?" things had taken a sudden turn for the macabre and he had no idea what he'd said. He hadn't done anything…. So it had to be something he said, "What'd I say?" he asked.

"Well, we are getting ready to go, so you ready?" snapped Louis.

"Whatever," grunted the still confused Francis, "Let's go." He pulled back the bolt and led them out, sending bullets ripping in to the infected as they ascended another floor in the tower of death that is Mercy Hospital: It was a long corridor, with at least a half dozen rooms on either side of it, "Stay tight," whispered Bill, "High and low at the corners and watch for close con…." The last syllable was lost as the unheard and unseen tongue coiled itself around Bill and yanked him back down the stairs they had just climbed. Louis gave chase.

From somewhere ahead of them, a high pitched shriek rendered the silence like a knife through butter and slammed Zoey to the floor as a Boomer rolled in hard on its heels, "Francis!" she screamed as claws parted her flesh, nearly to the bone. Blood splashed the wall and began to pool.

The biker roared in anger, too close to shoot the 300 pounds of mutated fat, the 185-pound Hell's Legion biker clamped his hand across the Boomer's drooling mouth and almost twisted its head off at the neck, shattering vertebrate to leave the Boomer staring permanently over its right shoulder. Moments after that, the Hunter was thrown against the floor, punned across the shoulders, its claws scratching desperately in to the blood soaked carpet. Fists drove down on to the creatures face. Flesh pulped. Teeth broke. Bones cracked.

Louis and Bill returned to find Francis standing over the ruined Hunter, his hands covered in gore, almost up to the wrists. He stripped the gloves from his hands and tossed them aside, not even bothering to try and save them. They were just another thing lost to the end of the world as far as he was concerned. He wiped his hands, as best he could on the hunter's clothes, getting most of the blood and chunks off his hands.

He wasn't worried too much about Zoey. The other two would see to her wounds, see to that cut on her arm. That was no scratch, and she was biting down hard on a wadded chunk of her sleeve as Bill stitched the wound close and pulled a layer of three ply bandage tight and fastened it, "That'll have to hold," he said quietly as she drained her canteen to help replace the fluids she'd lost. Francis dug in to his pack, and pulled one of the last few cans they had left and handed it to Zoey. He hated the stuff, but Francis had been carrying the can of fruit for more than a week. Now was as good a time as any to give it to her, "I hate pineapple," he said.

Louis was clearly impressed. Bill was giving him a grudging respect. He did not give a damn what either of them thought. It was the shock and fear in Zoey's eyes that sucked. He really cared, he realized, what she thought about him, "Gonna, scout ahead," he mumbled as he picked up his dropped weapon and headed towards the first pair of rooms away from someone who clearly rated a "one" on his "look out for number one" rule. He stayed ahead of them, but not far enough to be on his own

The corridor ended in a lift lobby, where the doors and from the looks of it, not even the cabling had been put in to place. They could see the service ledge on the far side of the yawning chasm, but none of them were foolish enough to even contemplate trying for an Olympic gold medal in the long jump. "Now what the hell do we do?" growled Francis.

Louis looked around the landing and found what he was looking for: construction blueprints. Letting his eyes scan across them, he finally found the right piece of paper. "There should be maintenance hatch or a vent that we can squeeze through. Once inside, there should be a ladder leading up to the thirtieth floor and then another one on to the roof." He looked around the lift lobby and found the recessed grate and Bill smashed it aside.

First through, Francis was crouched, sweeping the area ahead of and above them for any sign of the infected. Louis was the second through. Zoey scrambled through, and was still on her knees when the tongue whipped out, coiled itself around Louis and dragged him to the edge of the abyss. Still crouched, Zoey was quickest, like a sprinter off the starting block, exploding towards Louis, in time to tackle him to the floor but her weight was not enough to arrest the smoker's pull. Francis followed the tongue back to its source, two floors directly below them. "How the fuck did it get a shot at Louis?" the biker wondered as he grabbed on to Louis's pant leg as they continued to slide.

Bill came through and was greeted by Francis and Zoey almost sitting on top of Louis. "Smoker two floors below! I can't get a shot from here!" instead of chasing after the Smoker, the marine pulled his Kabar and slashed through the pinkish appendage. The three sagged with relief as the Smoker gave a coarse, high pitched cry of pain.

"Let's go hunt a Smoker!" growled the biker. With nowhere to run, it hissed at them once, and then popped like an overfilled balloon as bullets up its chest. The biker was about to clap her on the shoulder when he froze in mid motion, letting his hand fall to his side, "Nice shot Zoey." He studied the ugly green smoke cloud for a moment, as he heard her breathe out, trying to keep her cool. He hated the fact that she was scared of him.

"Back on solid ground," muttered Louis, "Thanks guys."

They made their way up the ladder and found themselves standing on the penultimate floor of Mercy Hospital, still the unfinished grey concrete that said construction in progress. The floor was wet, and so was the ladder. The storm had tapered off slightly but had not fully abated. The stars were hidden behind low hanging clouds, full of unshed rain, there was light, whether it was natural or manmade remained to be seen. They would have to get up there first, "Let's go ladies."

They spilled out on to the roof, and weren't sure what to make of it. There were infected, dead, butchered, and scattered virtually everywhere. Rain poured down, clouds partially obscured the moon. Lighting flashed and danced across the sky. "This is creepy," whispered Zoey, "Any infected down there?" Bill standing a few feet behind her, and Louis was standing next to him. Francis was already on the move, standing at the edge of the roof.

"All clear but it's going to be rough getting down."

"What?" she asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, ignoring the rain as far as was possible.

"We're gonna have to drop… looks about ten feet to a ledge, then another ten feet down to the roof itself. Looks like the ladder that was setup here, got the fuck beat out of it by the infected."

"Right, because Bill's trick knee and my screwed up ankle are going to let us do that," her voice was accompanied by a glare. Francis however had already dropped, and there was the thud of boots on concrete.

"Francis, you okay?" asked Louis as they stared down at the biker, who waved them forward, "Come on. Zoey: Your turn."

"Hell no!" she replied with a shake of her head, it wasn't that he was worried about whether he would catch her, or whether they'd both tumble of the edge and on to the roof, but whether she wanted to feel his arms, wrapped around her. She knew they were well muscled, toned, tanned and the fluttering in her heart was tempered by the fact that she had seen him kill with those same hands. "You gonna catch me?" she stalled.

"God damnit!" he growled, "Just drop already!"

She did, landing with an "oomph!" that knocked the air from his lungs. Despite the cold rain that continued to fall, it didn't help hide the feelings of warmth, safety and comfort. Fortunately, for the biker, and unfortunately for her, he'd learned his lesson and let go, to help the other two down, and she let her gaze study the roof top, splayed before them.

Honestly, she was no strategist or tactician. Her specialty, if she had one, was in blowing stuff up. But even she could tell that there were few places to hold out against a horde. They had come out of the elevator shaft, and the ledge they were on ran parallel to the ramp that lead up the chopper pad. At the opposite end of the roof stood a single squat low rise building, with the lights on and more importantly a mini gun standing on its roof. It was the most obvious point of defense, and judging from the scattered, bullet broken bodies, had been used more than once or twice in recent days.

She jumped directly to the landing pad and let out a quiet curse, the rear portion, perhaps a quarter of the chopper pad was missing. Either something had crashed in to it, or more likely, something had torn it off to use as an impromptu missile. Hopefully, that meant the Tank had also fallen off the side of the building. Nobody truly understands why the Witch cries, or why it only seemed to start its incessant wailing whenever a human gets close. She snapped her gun light off, and heard the distinctive clicks of three more lights being doused. "Well," muttered Louis, "That explains the lack of infected up here…."

There were a scattering of other mini buildings on the roof around. To the left of the mini gun bearing building was another small building, connected by a length of what was probably water or plumbing pipe. To the right was a tangle of pipe works and a flight of metal stairs which had paint flecking off. The foursome scanned around for the threat, "Does anybody see her?" Zoey hissed. Her head seemed to throb in time to her pounding heart.

Louis felt the same creeping fear. "I think she's on the other side of the pipe works, near the stairs," he whispered back. Naturally, it seemed that the witch would inevitable wind up in one of two places: directly in their path, or hidden enough to attract the attention of the clueless and curious, or the overly cautious who should know better than to look for one.

Gathered on the chopper pad, Bill was the first to take a cautious step towards the noise, "Just walk straight ahead, slowly." He had whispered the order and they all jumped when they heard the hiss of static from a radio, no doubt housed in the structure ahead, calling to them, and calling to survivors for rescue. A single infected lunged out from beneath the ramp: Two bullets struck it in the chest, and the third entered its mouth and exited, taking the rear of its head off.

The moaning, howling cries of the Witch ceased, as if someone had pushed the mute button on a TV remote. The rattling, warning growl that replaced the crying had them backing away from the general direction of the sound. "That Witch is not happy," Zoey whispered. Reaching Louis, she gave him a look and he could see he was wearing the expression of a man standing in a minefield.

Fortunately, they had only attracted its attention and not pissed it off as the crying resumed, "Where is she?" asked Louis. Finally having circled wide as possible to their left, Louis spotted the threat, "Base of the pipe works, blocking the stairs," he put his eye to the sniper scope and frowned, confirming what his eyes had already told him, "She's carrying something…"

Bill took another long drag, and flanked to the right as the heartbroken sobbing continued, the sound reverberating along, somehow swelling to occupy the entire roof top with a feeling of intense lonely hopelessness. He glanced up at the pedestal mounted mini gun and hoped it would have a good line of sight on the bitch.

The others retraced Bill's path, except for Louis, who was frozen, watching the rocking Witch. The creature was on her knees, the grayness of its flesh and skin so pale that it might as well have been alabaster white. Her dress covered much of her body, but somehow, left most of her bare, exposing the gaunt skeletal frame of a gulag or concentration camp prisoner. As always it were arms that were terrifying, not because they ended in wickedly curving scything talons, but because of the upper half of a little body it was cradling.

Louis shuddered and shuffle stepped back on to chunks of loose rock and stone, probably part of the missing chopper pad as he landed, hard on his back, his finger involuntarily tightening on the trigger with a death grip. The shot rang out, and the witch's eyes snapped open, and like a heat seeking missile, locked on to Louis.

He was trapped by the gaze of flaming orange, far different from those of the common infected, or even those special infected who still had eyes. The orange gaze revealed more. It revealed the loss of hope, friends, family, and loved ones. It showed everything she had lost when human and now also made plain that the gift of silent mourning had just been broken.

The pair moved at the same instant, Louis scrambling in to a crouch as it rose to its feet with haunting grace, leaving the body of the child sprawled at her feet as it launched itself, somehow more gracefully than a pouncing Hunter. Her eyes never left Louis's as she scythed back and forth in a rage, trying to shred Louis with every swipe of her clawed hands. He rounded the corner of the tangle of metal pipes, froze for an instant and then dropped in to a baseball slide. Behind him, the witch's claws would have given him a new hair cut – if he had hair to spare.

The Witch did not pause as bullets tore in. An arm was blown off at the elbow, her chest reduced to the consistency of Swiss cheese and her lower jaw was destroyed as Francis emptied the XM-26 shotgun in to its face. Blood dripped from half her face and her cries quieted to a high pitched whine, before she dropped to her knees, turned and began to crawl, dragging herself with one working arm, struggling to get back to her deceased child.

It was dying. And it was Louis, who surprised them all, as he made his way to the half corpse. The Witch growled or at least tried to as it reared upright, in to a sitting position. He matched the gaze and found that the fire had gone out of its eyes. Carefully, he used his rifle like a shovel and pushed the almost weightless remains closer to her. She reached out with her remaining hand, somehow able to scoop out the half body and pull it in to her lap. She didn't cry. She didn't moan. Or scream. Or growl. She merely looked at Louis, and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were strange, yellow amber color with a hint of a sparkle in them. The witch gave him the slightest of nods. Perhaps Louis imagined it but as it curled protectively over the remains of her son, and exhaled, silent, at peace at last.

"Deny it, if you want," remarked Bill, almost a whisper, "They're changing."

Shaken by their close encounter, they continued forward in to the small well-lit building, and the crackling voice on the radio that was either a very patient human, or a very tired recording set to loop to eternity. The space was about five meters square, windows on three walls, and a staircase leading up back to the mini gun mount. There was also enough weaponry and explosives stacked to outfight three or four squads of marines. Louis was actually wishing for a couple of squads of marines to back them up. But then again, if wishes were horses, they'd all be knee deep in shit anyway. He glanced at Bill, who had made contact with the chopper pilot, and turned the volume up so they could all hear both sides of the conversation.

The good news was that it was the Pennsylvania Air National Guard making the pickup, meaning that their pick up would come with some firepower. The bad news was that the tsunami of infected would be following the chopper, and they would have to be ready for the mother of all hordes, and a fight that would make the barbarity of urban street to street and house to house fighting thus far look like an imperial garden tea party. "Any ideas on how to defend this place against the super horde?" asked Zoey.

Quick discussions turned in to decisive action. Zoey and Francis placed several jerry cans of fuel and the tanks of fuel for cutting torches where they expected the horde to swarm in pairs. Ignite the gas bottle, and the fuel would burn, hopefully like a beer bottle Molotov. On the roof, despite the rain, the military pair were checking, loading and prepping as many weapons as they could. The worst time to reload is whenever you're in a fight for your life. Hopefully, with two dozen assault rifles, half as many combat shotguns at the ready, they wouldn't have to reload at all. "I tell you man," said Louis, "If we could get our hands on some claymores, we could bomb the bastards back in time."

Bill grunted. If you were going to wish for something, wish for a tank with enough shells and fuel to get them the hell out of dodge. The minutes ticked by, it was just after two in the morning finally when their preparations were complete, and they were ready. "Signal the chopper and let's get this over with!" shouted Francis, eager as always to get in to a good fight.

Bill pressed down on the transmit button, "Pennsylvania Air National Guard 014 - Mercy Hospital," he paused as the pilot acknowledged him, "PANG-0-1-4: You are green light for pick up."

"Mercy Hospital – PANG-0-14: Acknowledged your green light. Be advised. One - zero minutes from your location."

"PANG-0-1-4 - Mercy Hospital: Will hold pending extraction," said Bill gruffly, as he turned to his comrades, "Lock and load people!" They gathered around the mini-gun, Louis taking hold of the massive double grip handle, checking, for the umpteenth time, the gun's range of motion and field of fire. Bill had lit a cigarette. Zoey and Francis argued fiercely in hushed whispers, "Just, stay close to me."

"I can't do that, I'm a decent shot and we're going to need every gun we've got in this situation!" He nodded.

"Guess I'll have to do whatever I can, to protect you then eh?" muttered Francis, "Just like the subway." The biker hated to admit that he could not tell her what he was feeling, did not have the courage to admit it to anyone else. At least he could admit it to himself. The last part said in a whisper almost lost over the distant howling roar of the frustrated horde. Their eyes strained in to the rain filled night sky for their ticket to safety, but could not make out any sign of it against the inky blackness.

It seemed a fitting end to what might have been a good story given more time. This could be either the depressing yet fitting end or the start of something new - she spared Francis a glance - something better in dying world thought Zoey. Something better…. That settled it for her: She was not going to lose it now, not after all they had seen, and done. The infection would not go away if they made the rescue, but at least, she could share whatever the future would bring with someone – even if she had to club him over the head with Bertha, Bertha II and Bertha III to get him to admit it.

Bill was saying her name, but she was lost in dark contemplation until finally the tone punched through, cocking her head in his direction, "Stay with us girl. If that sounds anything to go by, we're going to end up with more than we can handle. You ready for this?"

"I'm ready for it," she murmured in reply, she let her eyes wander over their impromptu gauntlet of defensive surprises, as she asked a question in reply, "What about you? You ready for this shit?"

He was now looking out at the building top, his breath irregular as he tested the air for something; his eyes were wide and his entire body poised to pounce. "I'm a Marine. I was born ready." Bill chuckled. The wind howled, almost as if in response, rain continuing to pound the building and the gathered survivors.

Louis slapped the marine on the shoulder, "Nah Bill, like all marines, we're born horny and get ready during those angsty hormonal teenage years!" The moment of levity helped break the tension and bring it down just slightly. They still knew they were in for the mother of all fights.

They scanned the rooftop, and the skies, there was nothing but the cries of the horde, audible over the cracks of thunder and the howl of the gusting wind. Nine minutes remained. Their grips were tight on their guns, their breathing heavy. Louis found himself shifting from one foot to the other, swallowing a few times as he realized that he could hear the horde clearly over the sound of the storm.

Eight minutes, and she reached out, taking Francis's hand in her own. He gently shrugged her hand off his, and took her hand in hers. She tightened her hold; he hesitated, and then did the same. They did not have to say anything. All it took was a moment's touch to communicate to each other, what the other could not say. "Louis is going to give me hell for this," thought Francis… but he knew it would be worth it.

Seven minutes and the sheer size of the horde became apparent as Bill realized he was not hearing thunder or the storm anymore. He was hearing the footsteps, the sound of shoes and feet, stepping and splashing on the street thirty floors below, "My God, how many are there?" he thought. Then there was the scratching and scrabbling on the walls. Something clicked in his mind and he risked a glance over the edge of the building, "They're climbing!" he shouted in warning. Turns out that the infected may be too stupid to open doors, but they were also too stupid to realize that they should not be able to climb buildings by their exterior walls either.

It was a good news bad news scenario as the clock continued to tick down. The first Infected to reach the roof, boiled out like a volcanic eruption through the same hatch the four survivors had used. "Light 'em up!" roared Francis. Louis was quick off the mark, hosing down the area as the others held their fire. Whatever the mini gun failed to kill, half jumped half fell on to the roof. Bill engaged them, snapping of short bursts, chaining gunfire left and right. A Hunter screamed in mid pounce and received several bullets to the chest. It died in midflight and continued flying, over the edge to the pavement below.

"Nice shot." Francis yelled. He shot the few infected Louis missed but their numbers multiplied a rate rabbits on Viagra couldn't hope to match. "First line!" screamed the biker as he ltook the shot. The propane tank went off like a grenade, and the jerry cans of gas blew, spreading burning fuel across the rain soaked concrete floor. The storm however, meant they'd only bought themselves scant few moments of cover.

The fist slammed down, and caught Bill between the shoulder blades. Tendrils of pain lanced from his side and he turned, snarling in to the face of the infected that had clawed its way up the exterior wall of the building to reach them from behind and ruined its face with a burst that sprayed him with dried blood and flecks of flesh. "Six low!" screamed Bill. They had doubted the infected would actually be able to climb up, never mind during a storm with winds gusting up. Their stupidity was fast becoming one of their greatest strengths.

It was an orchestra of chaos and noisy, over which they could hear nothing… not even the tell tale gurgling off a Boomer. Somehow, the creature had managed to get up close, getting itself in to a defiladed position directly in front and below the mini gun's arc of fire.

The wave of putrefied, semi digested flesh, bile and god alone knows what else spewed from its mouth, upwards, splattering the mini gun its operator, Zoey and Francis. The sheer suddenness of the vomit attack had the three of them blind, deaf and stunned for a few seconds, long enough for the horde to smash down the doors. Louis, continued to stitch chains of destructive firepower at whatever flickers of movement he could make out, giving the others time to clear their eyes.

In the room below, the radio had been beaten and savaged in to spare parts. Bill capitalized on the moment with two pipe bombs, tossed underarm in to the radio room. They were standing on solid concrete, more than thick enough to stop the blast. He was right. Four seconds later and at least, fifty infected and one Boomer were a spray of red and green minced meat.

Their wall of shielding flame that had consumed dozens of the horde in moments died, and their biggest gun did the same, the mechanism fouled and its barrels clogged. "Shit! Shit! SHIT!" yelled an irate Louis. Considering the number of infected charging directly at them, even the worst of shooters would have killed plenty, "Molotov out!" called Zoey, hurling three of them in rapid succession, spreading flames across the roof. Water hissed and clouds of steam rose from the water soaked everything. They weren't in trouble yet, but they were rapidly getting there, "Down to three!"

Bill discarded the ammo box on his machine gun and slapped a fresh one home. Louis likewise slung his sniper rifle and grabbed yet another carbine, not bothering to reload just yet. "Stick with it!" said Louis, "That was just…" he felt it, and then looked out over the roof. Rain continued to fall in to preformed puddles, but there was a ripple in the water too, one that had nothing to do with raindrops. The beast emerged at the far end, climbing on to the chopper pad itself. A flash of lightning illuminated it clearly and the four were gaping as their elevator shaft opponent roared a challenge, demanding as it were, a rematch.

The tank had a forklift blade sticking out of its chest. As if there could be any doubt to its identity, Louis sight on the beast's hand and noted the missing finger on the left hand. "Well….fuck…" muttered Francis in response to that piece of news. It roared once, grabbed a chunk of fallen concrete and hurled it. They scattered as the rock slammed down atop the worthless hunk of jammed metal, ruining the weapon completely. Louis ducked behind a ventilator shaft as another improvised missile flew over the side of the building, probably to land somewhere in the Hersch's Shipping Company warehouse. "And grenades just piss 'em off!" thought Bill. There was only one thing for it, he realized: Two hundred rounds of 5.56 mm ammo.

"Warm it up! Everything you got!" he shouted, "Come on you ape! You wanna live forever?" Bullets slapped in to the slab of muscle like armor that covered the beast's chest. Louis was quick to catch on, snapping off aimed bursts in to the chest of the creature. Zoey closed the distance and Francis did likewise. It tried to charge, but the sheer kinetic velocity of their gunfire kept it on the back foot. Over a hundred small puckered, bleeding holes decorates its chest and stomach. More holes appeared as the survivors pummeled the beast with even more bullets.

They paused to reload, and in those few seconds, it bellowed, hurled a chunk of wall to keep them suppressed, to keep them from regrouping and reengaging. The wall piece bounced, skidded and fragmented. Louis realized he could empathize with anyone who had been on the receiving end of a half dozen "non lethal" bean bags as he was slapped off his feet.

"Over here you fucking freak!" yelled Francis. He held down the secondary trigger, pumping shotgun blasts in to its back only to realize somewhere between his third and fourth blast that he was too damn close. Its massive power fist connected and sent him flying in to the tangle of the pipe works, screaming in agony as his back and spine jarred off the unforgiving metal edge of the stairs. Sensing wounded prey, it closed to reduce Francis to the consistency of toothpaste.

Bill moved just like he had done in the alley some days, perhaps a week before. This time, he had a hundred rounds at his disposal instead of thirty and he let the tank have them all, standing his ground as the creature lumbered forward, bullets finally penetrating its shrunken head, half hidden by a gorget of muscle, gristle and sinews. Thoroughly distracted by the new relentless assault, it lumbered away, drooling, growling and gnashing its grungy teeth. Zoey moved to help Francis, "How do you feel?" she asked worriedly.

"Like I got hit by a tank!" he snarled and with Zoey on his heels they both engaged, holding down the triggers on their respective weapons, shell casings dancing and spinning around them as blood dripped from its older reopened and fresh wounds until it finally began to slow, and then stumbled. It swung out, but slowly, almost as if it was caught in a tar pit. It sank to its knees, the mountain like body jerking and twitching to the rhythm of the gunfire, its breath whooshing out.

It was a sign of evolution: The hordes of common Infected, even the other special infected had backed off when the tank attacked. There was a moment of peace, barely a moment before the horde howled, triumphant almost celebratory of the survivor's victory… because it meant that they would now get to feast on the humans instead, now spread out and scattered across the rooftop. Louis slammed a fresh clip home and laid down covering fire, allowing his comrades to regroup inside the small shelter turned abattoir, leaving him exposed.

It had been ghosting him and the fleshly intestine like whip lashed out with its almost classic hiss crack, coiling itself around his legs, snaring one arm against his body and then dragging him towards the pipe works. The breath was crushed from his lungs before he had even a chance to scream for help. And he felt a flash of fear as the horde closed in, "Smoker on Louis!" shouted Francis. Gunfire lanced out, perforating the horde as she dropped to one knee. The Smoker continued to reel Louis in like a fish on a line from behind its heavy cover that bullets would be unlikely to penetrate. She let loose a burst. Bullets sparked spranged and ricocheted off the concrete, one narrow missing Louis on the rebound. But it helped her get the range and her next burst severed the tentacle like appendage.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet and made good progress towards them, even if he was staggering like an alcoholic after a three day binge at an open bar. "Cover him!" ordered Bill. Their weeks of combat and fighting had made them proficient shooters and they were able to keep horde from reaching Louis, who was now cracking away with his both his hand guns at the infected too close for the others to pick off. Another Hunter paid for its audacity in attempting to pounce through the open window to their left, striking the top of the window frame before dispatch seconds before Bertha III obliterated a gurgling Boomer.

His weapon gave a dry click, and he dropped the Masterkey, snatched up another carbine and together with Bill, laid down a sheet of paint blistering suppressive fire. The infected howled and roared, paying no head to injury, to pain to death itself. The enemy, arguably the archenemy of mankind, the antithesis of life itself swarmed forward with their deaths in mind. "Lady and Gentlemen!" roared Bill, the bolt of lightning illuminating their bloodied battered forms, "Prepare to defend yourselves!" his voice took on an edge that somehow drowned out the crack of thunder. The killing began again as the horde swarmed through the doors and windows from both sides until finally, the weight of numbers began to tell, more than one of them reloading at once, forcing them to divert their fire in to the densest concentrations of the enemy.

"What's going to run out first?" wondered Zoey as she desperately mashed yet another magazine in to her submachine gun. There wasn't much empty space left inside or outside. They were standing, knee deep in the twice-dead bastards, and there was no end in sight, and the shell casings continued to flutter like broken winged butterflies on to the ever mounting pile of corpses before disappearing beneath another layer of dead.

Francis punched one in the face, shattering its jaw, and the blasted it in to oblivion, "I am tired of all these goddamn vampires!" nobody bothered to correct him as their rescue swept over the roof, the crew chief dropping grenades to clear a path to the chopper pad. The infected were reeling from the air strike as the pilot yelled something, drowned by the storm, bringing the craft in to a hover just above the chopper pad without actually touching down.

Tossing their pipe bombs to opposite corners of the roof, the foursome broke cover, shooting on the move, gunning down whatever infected got in their way, even if the hordes were streaming past them to get at the glittering flashing lights on the pipe bombs. The hunk of rock and steel, this time torn from the side of their now abandoned defensive position flew in. It sailed over Francis, who was covering the rear, came within inches of decapitating Bill, only to catch Zoey in the upper back and send her skidding forward on her face across the tarmac until she stopped next to one of the chopper's skids, aware of only pain. From the shadows a pair of Hunter's attacked. The helicopter's gunner managed to skeet one out of the air, but the second managed to slam down atop Francis as the world began to tremble and the tank moved in.

Pinned face down, Francis struggled against the infected dead weight, and managed to twist half way round, enough to block the downward swipe of a clawed hand, taking the blow on his forearm. Flesh parted like butter against a hot knife and he howled in pain, managing to jerk his head to the side as the other hand smashed in to the landing pad. Louis bowled it off Francis as Bill followed up with the kill shot.

The third Hunter pounced, upwards, slamming its way through the cockpit glass, almost landing in the pilots lap. He screamed in fear as he jerked back and the in pain as talons carved in to his chest and across his stomach, opening up lines of shallow wounds. Finally pulling his side arm from its holster, he shot the creature four times in the face, showering himself with blood, brain and skull fragments. He spat blood, uncertain if it was his or the Hunters. It didn't matter.

However, the pilot was done.

Clambering to his feet and cradling a lacerated arm, Francis ground his teeth against the wave of pain, as he collapsed on the edge of the chopper. He was on the ledge as the massive door mounted General Electric XM134 continued to lay down a curtain of almost 4000 rounds a minute as the foursome barreled their way on to the helicopter. Zoey had somehow, righted herself, dazed and confused, staggered drunkenly aboard before passing out.

The pilot stared in abject horror, as if it was the first time he was seeing such a beast as it tore yet another chunk out of the wall and hurled it, without even breaking stride as it closed the distance. The crew chief hammered the beast with at least a thousand rounds, but trying to hit the rock hurling monstrosity, partly hidden by the chopper pad itself was proving to be more than a little bit difficult. The bloodied and shaking pilot had had just about enough as he worked the pedals frantically. The chopper jerked hard over, the hunk of stone barely missed but still grazed, and then sheared a chunk out of the tail.

The pilot kept them on station as Bill hurled their last pipe bomb in to the mix and leapt aboard, followed moments later by Louis. It seemed like the Infected suddenly realized that they prey was about to escape, redoubling, even tripling their efforts as a smoker silenced the PANG-014's only weapon, dragging its operator out and directly beneath the chopper. Bill turned round due to the absence of the sound of manmade thunder to see an empty seat, "First to aid, last to die…" he muttered darkly , taking the gun control.

They were too late, too slow to save the crew chief. His mouth was open in a silent scream, eyes wide, alight with terror. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him as the coils of the Smoker's tongue crushed the air from his lungs, as scything talons tore in to his pinned arms and racked across his chest. Bill held down the trigger. Hundreds of rounds screamed across the narrow space, killing simply everything.

The pilot kept it together, despite his wounds as he jerked them round, a controlled corkscrew as he fed power and lift, taking them up and away from Mercy Hospital. Helicopters, especially transport choppers, are not the most agile of craft and the entire craft skewed as a second glancing blow struck the tail rotor of their craft. The veered wildly for a moment but somehow, the chopper managed to meander its way clear of the building as the tank stood on the edge and roared its fury at their escape. Still at the mounted gun, Bill fed the beast several hundred fifty caliber rounds, but for all the good they did, he might as well have been spitting at the brute.

Fortunately, they managed to level out and stabilize their flight even as they swerved somewhat erratically "The pilot's been bitten, he doesn't know if he's immune…" reported Francis. Silence greeted his words, but they all knew what it meant: It was unlikely that they would make it all the way. They would have to set down somewhere… hopefully, after they lost most, or preferably the entire massive horde chasing them.

Zoey was as comfortable as they could make her. She was awake, dizzy, a little confused, sore but otherwise alright, assuming she wasn't punched by another tank or tried to catch thrown concrete anytime soon. She lay back, watching Francis as he stuck his head out to feel the open air, the rush of speed as they crossed the sky above a city gone to hell.

Upfront, Louis dropped in to the co-pilot's seat, strapping himself in and donned a headset and asked two important questions: "Pilot, how you doing?"

He shook his head, "Not good…" The pilot seemed to be sitting in a pool of his own blood, somehow aware of his condition and more importantly their surroundings, "Grab that stick… I'm going to give you a crash course in how Katie-Bell here flies and handles… the worst," he paused, not for dramatic effect as the chopper pitched and suddenly dropped several feet before he had it back under control, "is going to happen…."

Louis turned his attention to the trio seated in back, "Strap in tight! This flight is going to suck and we don't serve drinks or peantus!

**A/N:**

I know I changed the rescue. It always pissed me off that the pilot makes a detour when he's already supposed to pick them up for him to have his "incident," and get infected. So I changed it, had him get infected and his chopper clipped by a tank. This way the chopper still crashes, you still get the link to Crash Course and the pilot STILL turns. Hopefully that'll keep everyone more or less happy – except the diehard purist types who stopped reading after I added grenades and real world guns to the mix.

Besides, if the pilot were to suddenly turn in mid flight, they wouldn't have crash landed, more like crash dived. Helicopters DO NOT have autopilot (as far as I know). And flying a chopper isn't like flying a plane where it's a little tiny bit like driving a car.

Also the chopper flying at the beginning of the campaign BETWEEN buildings… civilian chopper pilots do not necessarily have the skill to do that, at high speed, Some military (and possible police/SWAT) pilots would. That's why you get an Air National Guard unit making the pickup instead of a news chopper. This also adds up when you study the chopper at the beginning of Crash Course, with the word "MARINES" written on the side of the wreckage. And what military chopper wouldn't have guns in the middle of the apocalypse? The weapon had to be a door mount because anything else would either be too destructive (even "small caliber rockets" would be overkill) and how do you firing facing forward and have people climb in from the flanks since civilian chopper pads do not necessarily have enough clearance for larger military choppers…

So, it takes hours to write a chapter but only twenty minutes to read… and unless you've got a lot to say (which I hope you do) a review takes less than two minutes! Please read and review!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 9**

**Endings and ****New ****Beginnings**

They'd been in the air for seven, maybe eight nauseating minutes of wild pitches, yawing and rolling. They'd lost most of the horde two or three blocks away, probably due to their more than slightly erratic flight path. "We're not doing too good… getting a lot of vibration in the pedals;" said their pilot, "check those sys…" Metal shrieked. He struggled against and pain and blood loss induced fatigue. His limbs trembled, or it was the pedals and control stick. He wasn't sure if it was him or his chopper. The landing skids skimmed off the roof of a building with a shrieking, and something somewhere, exploded. A ball of flame blossomed and streaked like a comet. Where it went was anyone's guess.

It was their tail rotor. Bill wasn't sure how he knew that. The vibration and shrieking didn't stop, but changed in pitch, volume and intensity. Bill suddenly knew that they were no long flying. They were crash diving. And, he realized, Louis had a front row seat to the one way ground level debacle. There was a tearing of metal that was soul rending as the pilot repeated his broadcast, "… PANG-0-1-4, Going…"

"May…repeat…penn…air gua…. 4…ing down…." Every joint in Louis's body felt like it had dislocated as they rattled, spun and weaved their way to the ground. There was a sliding sensation, and the restraints and harness failed to keep them all properly grounded in their seats. Zoey was thrown bodily across the cramped interior against Francis. "The crashing part isn't going to hurt," thought the biker sardonically, "it's the whole stopping by slamming in to the ground thing."

A sudden, terrifying shuddering… there was a roar as something else exploded somewhere close by, yet another swift rattling of something against concrete and asphalt… A complete almost excruciating but strangely welcome blackness was the last thing Louis would remember.

Louis woke up.

He was lying down, and he could see that it was still night, that the darkness hadn't abated, but the light came from their still burning chopper. "Welcome back to the land of the living," said Zoey, "or the land of the dead, depending on how you look at it." He laughed, and that hurt. He suddenly realized it was easier to categorize what was ached a little – his head – and what didn't ache at all: His trigger finger. Suddenly, he understood why Francis had a perennially itchy trigger finger. He hated the bastards too.

There was, unfortunately, nothing they could do for their pilot; he had more than a single shard like blade of glass emerging from the torso of their dying pilot. Whether his wounds finished him, or the infection claimed him was academic. The wounds would kill him if he turned anyway. They'd laid him and bound his hands. He was no fool. They all knew his time was short.

"I'm sorry," the pilot had a maniacal gleam in his eye, and it was not a misnomer to state that there was something trying to claw its way out of him., "Base is…" The pilot pointed with his tied hands, down the street in to an alleyway. He slumped against the ground, pale, sweat shining on his face and blood staining his lips, eyes bloodshot and breathing raggedly at best, "Base camp… 25 kilometers east of here."

There were vivid bite marks on his arm, and collar bone. Blood and sweat had stained his flight suit, and there was an overriding smell of something else, perhaps it was what fear smelled like. Zoey stared for a long moment, then reached out and offered him her pistol. He laughed weakly and shook his head, "Couldn't, even if I tried," he gave what might have been a giggle of laughter, "And God knows… I want to. I can't… hold it…. back much longer. You do… you do it." He let out a strange choking, growling noise; shaking his head furiously. He was fighting the infection that burned and spread through his veins, consuming his humanity and mutating him in to something else. The pilot suddenly jerked upright and Francis let out a half shout of warning. The man's' eyes were no longer his own, taken over by a dark grey silver color.

"Hey Mr. Positive," Francis said, "You got anything to say about this?"

"Yeah!" replied Louis, "We survived a crash landing in a helicopter without restraints… and none of us are infected." The last part was whispered, almost as if it didn't need to be said. But it had to be, to bring home to all of them, the gravity of the situation.

Francis could only grunt. He had to concede that much was true… unlike their pilot, "Poor bastard," he thought, as he watched from a relative safe distance as he changed before them. There was the sound of tearing cloth, as he legs seemed to shorten slightly, the muscles in his thighs and calves thickening. It was the sound of bone, shifting, breaking, and the scream of human pain, that become one of animalistic agony.

He seemed to contact in to himself, as if hunching over. The last words the unfortunate could speak were in more of a hissed shriek than actually spoken, "Do it." They knew what "it" was, but it was a hard thing to do. Louis and Bill had killed in combat. Francis had killed in self defense. And it was Zoey who was holding the gun in a shaking hand.

Bill wasn't the type to hesitate; there was something about this situation that urged him not to let Zoey do the deed. He pulled his own side arm, swinging it up, and aim with the speed only a trained and battle hardened soldier can match and gave the trigger a smooth pull. "Had to be done," Louis murmured softly behind them, reaching over to put his hand on her shoulder, "Had to be done." He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her that letting Bill kill another human was the right thing to do, or whether he was trying to convince himself.

Bill was. He'd killed men before. And it was not something that he wanted anyone else to experience - especially Zoey. She was too young to be killing real humans, never mind the infected. He'd been twenty-one, a trained marine the first time he'd done it. That had been war, this was the apocalypse. "If I ever turn, I expect any of you, to do the same thing for me," It was a proclamation and an order. Not a request, "I would do the same for anyone of you." Francis turned away breaking eye contact with the veteran whose stare would have burned a hole in a Tank.

The chopper was burning, and Francis stared up, using the trail of destruction that marked several buildings to chart their descent. He wasn't sure who had been in control during the last frantic minute but whoever it was, had done a hell of a job bringing down intact enough for them to not only get clear of the chopper, but also strip it of supplies in the few minutes before it began to burn, " I just love helicopters," muttered Francis.

The other three broke out laughing at the sheer venom and sarcasm the biker had poured in to those four words. Finally, they calmed and were equally embarrassed, even though it is a normal reaction to extreme pressures and stress levels which was an accurate summary of their lives in the past few weeks. "So guys, two questions: Does anybody know where the hell we are? And does anybody know where the hell we should be going?"

Bill shrugged, "He did point down that alley, and we're more or less all set to move." They had filled out their pockets, webbing and packs with as much ammunition, the divided contents of the chopper's medical kit and emergency rations. It took them less than five minutes, as they studied a salvaged map, "Looks like we're here." They had gone fifty to sixty kilometers, and crashed on the outskirts of a small no name suburb of Fairfield.

"Yep," agreed Louis, "At least we know where we are, and where we're going," at the look from Zoey, he conceded, "We sorta know where we should be going."

Francis reached out and head slapped the bald former marine, "And we don't even get to leave the vampires behind!"

"They're zombies Francis!" snapped Zoey automatically as they saw the swarming horde. It only took them a few moments to figure out that it was a part of the horde chasing the chopper… the part that they hadn't lost during their flight from the city.

"Three Hunters leaping," muttered Louis, eye glued to his sniper scope.

"Two Smoker's smoking in the middle," growled Bill as he lit the cigarette from behind ear and stuffed a fresh one in to place.

"One Boomer leading," reported Zoey.

They had fallen in to their traditional places, and Louis took a knee, bracing his rifle on a pile of rubble, Zoey half crouched next to Francis, Bill and the biker himself standing at the back where their weapons could take advantage of their better range. "You know Francis, you'd have made quite a Marine," remarked Bill, with a feigning casual nonchalance.

The tattooed biker smirked, "You, Bill would have made an awesome Hell's Legion biker."

The foursome looked sized each other up for a moment, "Nah!" said Louis with absolute conviction born of three weeks surviving insanity with these people, "Francis, you'd look terrible in jungle green. You'd hate it. And Bill," the man laughed, "I'd hate to see you in a leather vest!" There was a chorus of chuckles, grins and half smiles. Francis admit it to himself, just himself that while Zoey was worth at least one and half on his "look out for number one" rule, the other three were worth a "1" too.

They waited, a comfortable silence, for the horde to cross the invisible line. That "line," was why survivors have guns. Bill took a drag on his cigarette, "Just remember now: Stick together." A cloud of exhaled nicotine tainted smoke seemed to form a near angelic halo around his head for a moment before it drifted away on the gentle night air.

Francis flicked the safety off the M16A4 and the XM-26, "And kick vampire ass!"

Louis sighed, "Considering you've been killing 'em for three weeks, you could call a zombie a zombie. But," he adjusted his aim, "Kickin' ass sounds like a good idea."He waited for the pouncing Hunter to land, and if he'd judged it right…

"We're on a Crash Course with that horde," agreed Zoey, "Kicking ass is what we do best."

They were battered, beaten, in more than one case, more than a little broken, but they were still unbowed. She grinned, and Francis swore that the grin was one that would make Death himself hesitate in trying to harvest _their _souls. Louis's rifle barked once, and in the distance a Hunter, its paws having just graced the ground, slumped and kissed the asphalt. The sniper began taking aim at the second Hunter.

Once upon a time, some three weeks perhaps a month ago, a frying pan wielding college student, an honorably discharged Marine Scout Sniper, a veteran of an unpopular jungle war and a bad attitude biker had been dysfunctional misfit individuals, lumped together by circumstance and chance. Now the foursome was more than a just a grouping. They were a family, standing tall and shoulder to shoulder.

The infected would descend upon them, in ravening hordes or with snap attacks and ambushes led by the "special" infected. The survivors would stand and gun them down till the bullets ran out, beat them back with rifle butts, bayonets and Ka-Bars and if it came down to it, bludgeon them the hordes to a bloody pulp with their bare hands. They are survivors. They are the genuine Disciples of the Apocalypse.

After all, kicking ass, like the young lady set, is what they do best when Left 4 Dead.


End file.
